


Another Door

by nwhepcat



Series: Keeper of the Book 'verse [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AtS s5 AU, M/M, Post-Chosen, post--Africa!Xander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-06
Updated: 2010-03-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 18:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 68,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/68087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xander has been rescued from the madness that overtook him in Africa, and Wesley has gathered a new group of demon hunters. But Xander receives a visit and a gift from Cordelia, and soon a new apocalypse threatens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Door

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my LJ readers for their suggestions, reactions and their extreme patience when I got stuck on this one.

It's the eighth straight day of rain, and everyone's going a little mental. Harris had a headstart -- not that he's like he was when the goddess was riding him, but these moods come over him, where he goes all quiet. Anyone else, and Spike would just assume he's a Gary Cooper type, but on Harris, it's damn eerie. He's been silent since the fifth or sixth day.

 

 

The rain, at least, gives him something to do. There are buckets all over AAAAA Seraphim Investigations, making with the Chinese water torture. Harris just moves from one leak to the next, focusing all his attention on his work. Spike tries bullshitting with him, asking him questions, saying provocative shite. Nothing works. He starts moving Harris' tools, just to incite a curse or two. But Harris just searches patiently until he finds what he needs. Abnormal, that's what it is.

 

 

Spike has no trouble riling up everyone else. Wes is deep in his books, trying to achieve Harris' level of focus, but every least thing makes him snappish. Faith's so edgy she comes near to thrashing Spike a couple of times, and he's thinking of courting a beating just for the exercise. Even Annie, Miss Upbeat 2004, has had her moments of being a right bitch.

 

 

A case would help. You'd think, with Wes buried up to his ears in books, that they'd have some monster-chasing or apocalypse-averting to do, but he's just working his Watcher muscles, or maybe distracting himself from the fact that there is no case, no income.

 

 

Spike's not unaware of the fact that Wes is occasionally buried up to his ears in Annie, as well, for all that they're being very discreet. The vampire senses make it bloody difficult, when the housemate's getting some and he's not.

 

 

He's having a smoke in the doorway, watching the rain sluice down, when the door opens behind him. He knows it's Harris without looking round. He offers the pack. "Fag?"

 

 

First time he ever asked this, back in the Harris basement, it had provoked an adamant avowal of Harris's heterosexuality. Most times since then, it's prompted a snort of laughter, at least a smirk.

 

 

Harris holds out his hand, palm up. His fingers curve slightly, ready to close around the handle of a tool.

 

 

Spike reaches under his jacket for the hammer tucked in the back of his waistband, and hands it over.

 

 

"I'll start talking when I'm ready, Spike. You don't have to worry."

 

 

"Who says I'm worried?"

 

 

But the speaking portion of his audience is clearly over. Harris stays out on the step, though, watching the rain come down, turning the hammer over in his hands.

 

 

"Be a real letdown, wouldn't it, if this were the apocalypse?" Spike says conversationally. "Just gloom and rain and more gloom and rain. The whole human race meeting its end with pruny fingers and toes. Anticlimactic, but effective, I suppose." He takes a last drag and pitches the cigarette into the gutter, where it's immediately swept away. "'Course, God promised that won't be how it goes."

 

 

That earns him a sharp glance from Harris.

 

 

"In the bible, Harris. Any Victorian gentleman knows that backward and forward. Noah? The flood? When it's all done, God makes the promise he won't destroy the world by water again. A mite passive-aggressive as promises go, if you ask me."

 

 

"Victorian gentleman," Harris scoffs. "I'd pay serious money to go back and see that."

 

 

By the time Spike turns to make a retort, Harris is gone.

 

 

***

 

 

Spike had never noticed before that their little HQ creaked and moaned like the timbers of a ship. But now that he's put that bleedin' story in his head.... Contributing to the illusion are the narrow building, the small but inviting living spaces Harris has fashioned in the upstairs, making clever use of every available inch of space. The unceasing hiss of rain, erasing the sounds of the city, adds to it as well. It all makes Spike feel edgy and claustrophobic, trapped, though he's perfectly free to leave. At least he's not sharing his space with a sodding menagerie made up of two of every animal in creation. Not much of a bright spot, but he'll take it.

 

 

Once he's tended to every leak, Harris starts in carving on scrap wood, keeping his hands busy. The quiet bothers Spike more than the hammering. Harris mostly keeps to himself, though a few times Spike sees him consulting with Wes about a design. Like any good Scooby, he knows you never appropriate a symbol unless you're damn sure it means something harmless.

 

 

The steady hiss of rain gives way to thunder and lightning and strong winds. The news shows report rich people's houses sliding down into canyons, whole beaches eroding into nothing. After another day of twilight, the power goes out shortly after dark.

 

 

The first reaction is a soft grunt of surprise and pain from another room, then a jumble of exclamations and curses from all around. "Looks like the whole street is out," Faith says from a window.

 

 

"I believe it's more widespread than that," Wes responds. "Look how dark it is."

 

 

The sky, which has had a lurid orange glow of streetlights bouncing back from the clouds -- no doubt fueling Spike's apocalyptic musings -- is completely black. There's no glimmer of light, even from the horizon.

 

 

"Where's Harris?"

 

 

The rest of them are bunched toward the front of the house, but Harris isn't around. Beneath the harsh sulfur-stink of matches -- Anne's begun lighting candles -- Spike catches a trace of a sharp, coppery scent.

 

 

He follows it to the back garden, which is a laughable misnomer for a patch of concrete surrounded by a high fence. Harris stands in the rain with his back to the house, his face raised to the downpour, arms stretched out with palms upturned. Spike stands in the doorway, watching him. Doesn't take long before his t-shirt and jeans are plastered to his body, and his hair, still brushing his shoulders, becomes a ropy, dark mass running with water.

 

 

"Have you gone daft again, standing in the sodding dark smelling of blood?"

 

 

Harris turns, dropping one arm and leaving the other outstretched. "It's just a nick. It's already stopped." As he lets that arm drop too, he cradles it in unconscious habit. The arm that had borne the goddess's mark, now unblemished. "I miss the dark. This kind of dark."

 

 

"Should've gone with Rupert, then."

 

 

Harris shakes his head. "No. This is what I needed. It's just ... tradeoffs. You wouldn't believe it out there, Spike. How complete the dark was. I never knew how fucking vast, how many stars." He looks up at the sky again, unmindful of the rain. No stars tonight, though.

 

 

Spike lights up a fag. "I'd believe it. I've been."

 

 

He turns his scrutiny on Spike. "You've been to Africa? I never knew that. How long ago?"

 

 

"Went to see a man about a soul. Demon, actually."

 

 

Harris blinks. "Where they doing that these days?"

 

 

"Uganda. Up north, somewhere around Arua."

 

 

"Christ, Spike. What, a year and a half ago? That's hardcore. Have any run-ins with the Lord's Resistance Army? Well, you're hardcore, too, but they --"

 

 

"--scared the piss out of me, yeah. Plus I was working on being crazy myself, newly souled and all. Wouldn't want to do it again."

 

 

Harris is quiet for a moment, then says, "Yeah." There's a note of respect in his voice. "I stayed well the fuck away from there." He stands there in the downpour, holding his arm and working his thumb into the muscle near the elbow.

 

 

Spike takes a last drag, throws his half-smoked cigarette into a puddle, then steps out from the sheltered doorway. "That's hurting you again."

 

 

Harris shrugs. "Never stopped."

 

 

Spike gestures at him, and he offers the arm. "Close your eyes a minute."

 

 

A bemused look crosses Harris' face, but he complies. Spike takes his forearm in his hands, presses his own thumbnail against the flesh, increasing the pressure with no reaction from Harris. It's not until Spike draws blood that Harris yelps and pulls away. "Hey."

 

 

"That's what it's like all the time? That level of pain?"

 

 

"You're the one who was worrying about me standing out here bleeding. Jesus." He smears rainwater over the skin until the blood washes away, but it wells up again.

 

 

"Took me drawing blood before you even registered anything."

 

 

"Yeah, so what? It is what it is, screaming and rolling around on the ground isn't gonna help."

 

 

"Haven't even seen you so much as crack a beer."

 

 

"I did a little too much of that after the non-wedding. That's not going to help anything either."

 

 

A stream of rainwater sluices inside the back of Spike's collar, prompting a shiver. He turns to head back inside.

 

 

"Spike--"

 

 

He pauses, turns back. "Yeah."

 

 

"I don't think I thanked you. For your part in all this. I've got kind of a long-running habit of not thanking you."

 

 

"Forget it."

 

 

Irritation flashes on his face. "If I'd wanted to forget it, I'd keep going the way I have been."

 

 

Spike wipes rainwater from the back of his neck. It feels almost warm against his dead skin. Harris, on the other hand, has gooseflesh rising on his arms. "Yeah," he says. "Knew what it's like, didn't I? Wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

 

 

Harris erupts with a sharp laugh.

 

 

Spike rolls his eyes. "I'm not saying that."

 

 

"Back in Sunnydale. There was so much going on those last few days. I never said thanks for -- getting me away from Caleb. If you hadn't--"

 

 

Even in the dark, Spike sees the shadow of a few hundred nightmares on his face. "No need thinking of that." Pointless to say, he knows. He lays his hand on Harris' arm again. "This bothers me. Must be something you can do. Get it seen to."

 

 

"What I can do is use it like I normally would. Not medicate myself into a stupor. That's straight from the coven. That witch who came with Giles to--" he pauses a moment, searching for words for what happened. "To send her away."

 

 

There's just a trace of longing in his voice, even after everything.

 

 

He releases his grip on Harris' arm, but before he can step away, Harris' hand flashes upward, cupping Spike's neck, just below the base of his skull. Spike feels the strength in his rough carpenter's hand, smells the blood from the small cut Spike opened with his thumbnail. Harris' heart beats a little erratically.

 

 

His touch is as cool as Dru's, and so are his lips, tasting of rain.

 

 

Not smart flickers in the back of Spike's head, like a benign version of the chip. Strange that his brain, after all these years, should suddenly acquire that software. He ignores it, parts his lips. Harris accepts this invitation, offering the heat of his mouth, the fevered gusts of breath that prove it's life Spike's drinking in, in a wholly different way than the old days.

 

 

And what, exactly, is he giving in return?

 

 

Spike ignores that, too, hands and tongue tangling with Harris' as they pull at one another's clothing in the hissing downpour. He pulls Harris's t-shirt free, snakes his hand underneath.

 

 

Harris gasps at the chill of his touch, pulls back just a hair's breadth.

 

 

It's enough, even though Harris reaches for him again immediately. "This ain't what you want," Spike says. The speech patterns are Spike's, but the accent comes out pure William.

 

 

"Maybe I should be the one to decide what I want."

 

 

"What I--" He covers with a cough, begins again. Now his Spike voice settles into place. "What I want is to get out of this pissin' rain."

 

 

"Yeah, okay," Harris says, and leads the way inside, into a room warm with candleflame and the scent of tea and excited voices.

 

 

"Guess I've been wrong all this time." The voice is only faintly familiar to Spike, but it sends Harris' head snapping up. "You do have enough sense to come in out of the rain."

 

 

"Oh my god," Harris breathes, his voice filled with wonder. "Cordy."

 

 

***

 

 

The emotions that flicker across Harris' face are a study for the poet Spike used to be. Delight, relief, then he recoils, uncertain. Spike knows what he's thinking, but if it's the bloody First Evil, it's lost a step. She looks too good for the comatose woman Spike had seen, even though he'd only spied her from the doorway.

 

 

However she reads Harris' resistance, she pushes right past it. "C'mere, you," she says, but she goes to him, throwing her arms around him, heedless of his dripping-wet clothes and hair.

 

 

"I thought you--" He wraps his arms tight around her.

 

 

Anne brings Spike a blanket and towel to dry and warm himself, and by the time he returns his attention to Harris, he and Cordelia are just stepping back from their embrace. Anne plies him with towel and blanket too, but he just stands there holding them, dripping. "I can't say how sorry--" Harris starts to say.

 

 

"Please," she says softly. She puts a hand to his chest. "I'm the last person you have to apologize to for what you did under the sway of some goddess." A sudden shift of position from Wes catches Spike's eye, and a fleeting expression tells him there's a story there. "You didn't hurt me, take a look."

 

 

She steps back, arm's length away, but still grips just below his shoulders.

 

 

"It's not just the candlelight. You ... look amazing," Harris says.

 

 

She does. Altogether too amazing, in Spike's view. The Malibu Barbie glow, the cascade of curls, the breasts about to come spilling out of her top. Last time Spike saw her, she was looking like a three-day-old party balloon.

 

 

"When did you come out of it?" Spike asks.

 

 

"Would you believe today? Mystical coma -- think how much the movie stars would pay for a beauty treatment like that."

 

 

"I wouldn't know," Faith says. "I had the plain kind, and I came out looking like shit on toast."

 

 

"You also came out homicidal, if I remember," Cordelia says tartly. She turns her attention on Wes. "Which -- I don't want to say anything -- well, I do, because I always do -- but I've gotta wonder about the roster here." She flicks a look at Faith, and then at Spike. "Team Angel's not what it used to be."

 

 

"It's exactly what it used to be," Wes counters. His tone is friendly but firm. "A team -- excellent choice of words -- of proven fighters carrying on the mission that Angel started and then abandoned."

 

 

"There's a difference here," she says. Her tone's softened too, more troubled than combative. "That time Angel fired us. This time you're the one who walked away."

 

 

"You've seen him, then. Have you seen his new corner office at Wolfram &amp; Hart?"

 

 

"Guys," Harris says softly. "Can we not do this now?"

 

 

"Xander's right," Anne says. "These two need to get into some dry clothes. I'm going to put on some tea and scrounge up something to eat. Can we get more candles rounded up?"

 

 

Spike chuckles as the others head off to do her bidding.

 

 

"What's so funny, Peroxide Boy?" Cordelia asks.

 

 

"Takes a woman who wrangles adolescents for a living to get us sorted out, doesn't it?"

 

 

Amusement passes over her face, then she stifles it. "Ask me when we're sorted out."

 

 

Harris feels his way up the stairs in the dark, a looming, shadowed figure with the blanket hanging from his shoulders. Spike follows the soft squelching sound of his feet in his wet shoes. When Harris reaches the top of the stairs, instead of entering his own room, he turns toward Spike.

 

 

"This is bothering you, innit?"

 

 

Harris nods. "I saw her. Before. I was -- well, I was crazy as fuck, but I know what I saw. There was nobody in there."

 

 

"I couldn't get close to her, but I haven't the slightest doubt in what you say." Spike's gratified to see the relief that crosses Harris' face.

 

 

"I was wondering -- well, the First never appeared to me. Does she strike you that way?"

 

 

"Considered that. But then she put the squeeze on you. The First wasn't corporeal."

 

 

Harris nods. "True. But say it's learned a new trick. Say what we did in Sunnydale somehow allowed it to change."

 

 

"She looks too damn healthy, is what I thought. The First is a lot cannier than that. I always believed in what I saw when it came to me. That's what drove me 'round the bend."

 

 

Harris quirks a smile. "So the fact that she's unbelievable works in her favor."

 

 

"Somethin' like that. How does she read otherwise? Does she sound like the Cordelia you remember?"

 

 

"First words out of her mouth an insult? Oh yeah." He leans against the faded floral wallpaper of the hallway. "I didn't realize how much I've missed her."

 

 

Yeah. Spike knows the feeling. "So we keep watching her. Examine her possible motives for everything she says and does, yeah?"

 

 

Harris looks away. "Sometimes I hate this life. That paranoia is always the smartest response. She's my friend. Used to be my girlfriend. I just want to be happy she's back. I wish -- oops, nope, we don't do that anymore."

 

 

Spike lays his hand on Harris' shoulder, just at the base of his neck. "Yeah," he says simply. Harris leans in toward him and Spike feels the furnacy heat of his body as it works to warm itself. "You want to be peeling those wet things off now."

 

 

Harris laughs. "Now you're talking."

 

 

The desire to claw Harris' clothes off gusts through him, and he'd swear he feels the same urge thrumming in the tension of Harris' muscles. But all Harris does is reach up to touch Spike's hand on his shoulder, then he turns away toward his own room.

 

 

***

 

 

When Spike makes it downstairs, Wes and Cordelia are alone in the office, so intent on their conversation they don't notice him. And possibly because he's skulking. He might not be actively eating people anymore, but it never hurts to keep up the skulking skills.

 

 

"--gave us each the thing most likely to ensnare us. With me, it was access to any arcane text I could wish."

 

 

"So what's wrong with that?"

 

 

"I never saw the actual texts. I had a set of template books, a kind of conduit to reproductions of the text. I came to realize they couldn't be trusted. Just think what could happen if I were shown a prophecy that was in fact a lie."

 

 

"Well, we already know that," Cordelia says.

 

 

"It could be disastr-- What?"

 

 

"We've seen what would happen. The whole Connor thing."

 

 

Complete bewilderment flashes across Wes's face before his attention shifts behind Spike.

 

 

"Coming through," Faith announces. "Fire in the hole, whatever that means."

 

 

She's carrying a tray crowded with a number of lit candles, and behind her is Anne, balancing her own tray with tea and plates and packets piled onto it. As she passes, Faith says, "Want to round up some chairs, Spike?"

 

 

He doesn't particularly, but since it's not really a question, he doesn't answer, just goes to fetch some.

 

 

When they've all settled in around the desk -- except Harris, whose movements they can hear in the creaking floorboards above -- Anne begins arranging the food and handing 'round mugs of tea. Faith leaves the candles bunched together on the center of the desk in an approximation of a campfire.

 

 

"Is he doing all right?" Anne directs her question to Spike.

 

 

"Yeah," he says, sounding more certain than he feels. "Yeah."

 

 

"So Anne," Cordy says as she accepts her mug, "how in the hell did you end up with this crew? Don't you still run that teen mission?"

 

 

"Shelter. Yeah, I do, but it's pretty well established, though, so I've been spending a few days a week here."

 

 

"But how?"

 

 

Wes jumps in. "She brought us our first case -- actually, the one that brought us all together. She's the one who alerted me to what had happened to Xander."

 

 

"What exactly did happen to Xander?" Cordy asks. "You said something about me having been in danger, and Xander and some ancient goddess."

 

 

"He fell under her influence in Africa," Wes says. "He managed to travel home to the States even though he was quite insane. He's told us since that he believed he needed to sacrifice five people from Sunnydale -- specifically, who'd shed blood in Sunnydale -- in order to bring five others back to life. He also believed that Sunnydale would rise again as her glorified city. Those promises may or may not have been true. Her actual purpose, I'm convinced, was to open a portal between her world and ours."

 

 

"'Rise again' -- what is this, some kind of new Sunnydale pride movement? I think the South has the copyright on that phrase."

 

 

"Means just what he says," Faith says. "Sunnydale's gone. Collapsed into the hellmouth."

 

 

She blinks. "Gone--? As in completely? When did this happen?"

 

 

"I believe it was a month or so after you fell ill," Wes says gently.

 

 

"How many died?"

 

 

"Fewer than you'd think," Harris says from the doorway. He's managed to join the periphery of their circle with no one noticing, even Spike. He grabs the one empty chair and places it next to Cordelia's. As he seats himself, he reaches for her hand, and she seizes his like a drowning woman. "There was a big exodus from town in the days and weeks before. Things got so bad people couldn't stay blind to it anymore. Even the demons were scattering."

 

 

"My parents -- do you know anything?"

 

 

"No. But Willow created a database, a registry. Other people run it now, but you can find it online when the power's up again. I'm sure they're fine, Cordy." He reaches over with his free hand to cover hers. "Hardly anyone stayed."

 

 

"But you did."

 

 

"Yeah. And Faith. And Spike."

 

 

"I'll check the registry when there's time," Cordelia says. "But we may be busy for a while first. I'd better quit stalling -- I had a vision. That's what woke me up. And Wes, I'm gonna need your help."

 

 

***

 

 

Cordy bends her head to her sketching as Xander shines a torch onto the paper. After she finishes, she studies it a moment, then hands it over to Wes. "That's it, just a bunch of crazy symbols. I tried 'em out on Angel, and he didn't recognize them. He said he'd get his people on it, but, well, the more the merrier."

 

 

"Angel doesn't have people in that department anymore. He has demons."

 

 

"And whose fault is that? Gunn told me this whole thing has more to do with your father than with Wolfram &amp; Hart. I miss everything."

 

 

"It had nothing--"

 

 

"Kids," Faith interjects. "Enough with the sniping. Do we have a case here, or not? This is all you saw, the chicken scratches?"

 

 

"We've done more with less," Wes says. "I'll need my books. While I'm gathering those, pass this around. One of you could have encountered something like these in your travels." He hands off the paper to Spike as he leaves the room. Spike shrugs and hands the paper and the torch on to Anne.

 

 

Cordy draws Harris off to a corner of the room. It's dark, of course, and their murmurs are covered by the hiss of rain, but Spike's vampire senses are sufficient for eavesdropping.

 

 

"Thanks for being here for me. If you think my parents are okay -- well, I trust you. I'll find them in Willow's database as soon as I can."

 

 

"Any way I can help," Harris says. "I'm sorry we were out of touch for so long, but I'm here when you need me."

 

 

"I totally trust in that, too. You're one of the steadiest guys I've ever known." She puts her hand on his cheek and touches her lips to his. Stepping back, she says, "Guys, I really have to fly. I'm thinking whatever's going on, it has something to do with Angel. I'm going to head back."

 

 

Faith stands. "You need me to come?"

 

 

"No. Not yet. We'll keep you posted." Cordelia turns and nearly crashes into Wes, who's returned with an armload of books.

 

 

"Cordy, where--?"

 

 

"I'm heading back to Angel. I'll be in touch."

 

 

"Wait. What you said about false prophecies--"

 

 

"Connor. Yeah. Wes, I really wouldn't go digging that up anymore. Angel seems like he's finally at peace. Where'd I leave my bag?"

 

 

She bustles out into the downpour, and Wes turns back to them, dumbfounded. "What happened?"

 

 

"Nothing happened," Harris says. He touches his lips, not quite troubled, but as if he's pondering.

 

 

"Well, that was surreal," Faith comments. As if to cap off that statement, the electricity comes on again, leaving them all blinking in the sudden glare. "Lights or no lights," she adds, "I'm still making s'mores." She reaches for a packet of chocolate-covered digestive biscuits and a bag of giant marshmallows, down to the last few. So that's the sugary something Spike occasionally smells on her breath. She skewers one on a wooden chopstick and holds it to the candleflame.

 

 

"So that's where all my biscuits have been disappearing," Wes says, outraged.

 

 

"Biscuits," Faith scoffs. "You Brits can't just eat cookies. They have to be good for you. Digestive, for crissakes." Her marshmallow catches fire, and she casually blows it out, then lays it between the chocolate sides of two of the biscuits in question. "Well, they ain't graham crackers, but the chocolate coating is a timesaver."

 

 

"Faith--"

 

 

The phone shrills, and Wes carefully reaches over the dancing flames to retrieve the cordless. "Seraphim Agency, how may I direct your call?" This is his latest affectation, which he's tried to institute as policy. "Er, yes, speaking." And that's the problem with that particular affectation. "Why, yes, of course, that's quite astoni-- Could you repeat that? I assure you, that's impossible." The color drains from his face, and he glances at his watch. "And did she regain-- I see. Yes. Yes. I'll be in touch to make arrangements." Wes thumbs off the phone, then lets his hand fall into his lap. "It's Cordelia," he says distantly. "She--" He gazes at the tiny flames, unable to go on.

 

 

"She what?" Harris demands.

 

 

Wes rises, the phone clattering to the floor. "There are things. I need to--" Again, he lets the sentence trail off.

 

 

Harris cradles his arm close to his body. "Who was that?"

 

 

"That was the hospital," Wes says slowly. "They say-- They told me Cordy died. About forty minutes ago."

 

 

***

 

 

There's a flurry of movement and emotion that assaults Spike. Anne abandons her chair and slips her arms around Wesley, murmuring comfort. Faith snaps the wooden chopstick she'd been fiddling with.

 

 

Harris winds a fist into his own hair, breath hissing from his lips. "God. This is my doing."

 

 

"You're talking shite," Spike says flatly.

 

 

"I'm not. I tried to kill her. Wes had to throw himself on her to--"

 

 

"You said yourself there was nothing to her, even when she was breathing."

 

 

Faith turns and directs a sharp glance at Harris, and even Harris himself flinches at the harshness of his words.

 

 

"She could have gone on. If she'd just been left in peace--"

 

 

"No," Wes says. He gives Anne's cheek a tender caress before he turns his attention completely toward Harris. "She was declining." Judging from the emotion rolling off him, Wes is just realizing this as he speaks. "Every week there was some small sign. I didn't let myself see. But she was failing."

 

 

"I'm not trying to be a hardass here," Faith says, "but maybe we should figure out exactly who or what that was dropping by for a visit."

 

 

"The First," Harris says without hesitation.

 

 

"That's not the way it works," Faith counters.

 

 

"Yeah, the touching thing. I know. Spike and I talked about that. But what if the collapse of the hellmouth changed it in some way? Gave it the ability to take physical form?"

 

 

"That's not what I'm--"

 

 

"I'm feeling out of the loop," Anne says. "The First what? National Bank? Baptist Church?"

 

 

"The First Evil," Faith explains. "As in 'I am the bad shit that all other bad shit fears.' That's what we faced in Sunnydale, just before it collapsed."

 

 

"It couldn't touch you," Spike says, "but it could crawl inside your head."

 

 

"And that's what I mean about this not being how it works," Faith says. "In a couple of ways. Okay, it appears as someone who's dead, yeah, but I don't remember seeing it work a whole room. It likes the one-on-one. Crawls inside your head, like Spike said. It chooses its form based on your weaknesses. It comes as somebody you might trust, or someone you want to please. It doesn't play the boogie man and scream at you that you suck. It erodes the ground you stand on, without you hardly noticing. With me it was Wilkins." The name means nothing to Spike, but Wes and Harris and even Anne seem to know who she means. "He made me feel like I could be someone -- that I already was, as far as he was concerned. The real Wilkins, I'm talking about. The First, it used that. Twisted it. Made me doubt the people around me, doubt myself. Fucker is subtle in how it plays you. Spike, it went after you, didn't it?"

 

 

"Yeah. With me, though, it was a bleedin' parade. People I'd loved, people I'd killed--" Some fell into both categories, and that was part of what had driven him insane.

 

 

"So maybe not always so subtle. Harris, what about you?"

 

 

He starts. "Me?"

 

 

"Yeah, you. How'd it come to you?"

 

 

He works his thumb into the meat of his forearm. "It didn't."

 

 

"Get out."

 

 

"I said it didn't," Harris says sharply, which prompts a shrug from Faith.

 

 

"So anyway, appearing to a roomful of people interferes with how it works best. And as far as what Cordelia said ... She told Xander she counted on him and trusted him. Not so much with the undermining. She did make a crack about me and Spike, but I couldn't give a microshit what she thinks, and I doubt Spike does either. So who's the target?"

 

 

She's usually more perceptive than this. "Just taking a flying guess here, but what about Wes?" Spike says. "She questioned his leaving Wolfram &amp; Hart, questioned his choice of colleagues, planted some vague hints about something she says not to pursue."

 

 

Wes says nothing, but his reaction makes it clear Spike -- no, Cordelia -- hit her target. "Cordelia herself was entirely capable of making the same remarks."

 

 

"Yeah, but Cordelia is dead," Faith blurts. "We're losing sight of the main question here. Who -- or what -- the fuck was here?"

 

 

Heat blossoms in Harris' face. "What the fuck she was is someone I cared about, Faith. Christ. Let the people who do give a shit take in the fact that she died, can't you?"

 

 

"How do we know there's time?"

 

 

"You know what? I can't be having this conversation right now." Harris seizes one of the candles still burning on the desktop, a small votive in a frosted glass holder. Though the lights in the house are blazing once more, he carries it up to the second floor, boots pounding on the stairs he takes two at a time.

 

 

Leaving eddies of emotion in his wake, his anger by no means the only one.

 

 

***

 

 

Spike thumps at Harris' door.

 

 

"Go get fucked."

 

 

Spike opens the door and steps inside. "Believe I will. Thanks for the invitation."

 

 

It takes him a moment in the dark to find Harris. He's sitting on the floor, leaning against the far side of his bed, gazing out the window into the dark. Or perhaps at the candleflame guttering in the draft of the windowsill.

 

 

"Slayer means well, more or less. What she lacks in sensitivity she makes up for in crassness."

 

 

No reaction at all to his attempt at a joke. "She's just a problem. A puzzle to solve. Even to Wes."

 

 

"No."

 

 

"She was the first person I -- the first girl I cared about who wanted me back. I should have treated her better, but I was young and stupid, and then everything changed."

 

 

Spike leans against the wall by the door, regarding the slump of Harris' shoulders. "How it usually happens, innit?"

 

 

"Now they're down there talking about her like she's a threat. Something that has to be dealt with. Because that's how we handle things we don't understand, that's how we've always done it, no matter how big a chunk it tears out of--" It's not Cordelia he's is talking about now. Harris presses the heel of his hand to his forehead, his breath turning ragged.

 

 

Spike softly clicks the door shut and crosses the small room. He squats on his heels beside Harris. "You're whole. Might not feel that way--"

 

 

"Now you're talking shite."

 

 

Another time Spike might smile to hear Harris appropriating his speech patterns, but not tonight. "I do that a lot, yeah. But not now."

 

 

"Had you known it came to Faith? The First, I mean. I never knew that. So I guess it dropped in on everybody. Hell, even Andrew was important enough to get multiple visits. All the key players. Everyone except Handyman Harris. Joe Fix-It. Why fuck with his head? It's not like it's important to anyone."

 

 

Spike seizes him by the shoulder. "Stop it."

 

 

Harris blinks, surely in response to the electricity Spike feels between them. His voice is quieter, less challenging, as he says, "You tell me why."

 

 

His hand still grips Harris' shoulder, though he's not sure why. "Count yourself lucky."

 

 

"That's not good enough."

 

 

He pulls Harris toward him, seizes his face in both hands and presses a kiss on his mouth. Spike pulls back just enough to whisper, "Don't be stupid," then kisses him again, abrupt and demanding.

 

 

He can't even tell what he's trying to do: offer comfort, or shut him up. Doesn't seem to matter much. Harris gives as good as he gets, soft grunts and fevered gusts of breath. One rough carpenter's hand takes him by the back of the neck, while the other scrabbles at the denim covering Spike's prick.

 

 

Spike reaches round with both hands to grab Harris' ass, prompting him to arch backward and utter a half-strangled cry. He's wondering if this reaction promises Harris will be his best lay ever or his worst when he realizes he's misinterpreted. Harris clutches at his own head with both hands, shouting in inarticulate agony as if he's --

 

 

As if he's been chipped.

 

 

***

 

 

Spike's torn between helping him ride it out and summoning help. After a split second's hesitation, he bolts for the top of the stairway, calling down to the others. "Oi, Watcher! Need some help up here!"

 

 

Wes doesn't waste much time appearing in the doorway. "What?"

 

 

"It's Xander. He's having some kind of seizure." He turns and races back into the room, gratified to hear Wes taking the stairs at a run.

 

 

He's sprawled on the hardwood floor now, panting, his back no longer arched.

 

 

Spike grips his shoulder again. "Hang on, mate."

 

 

One hand still clutches his head, but not as desperately as before. "Born with two," he mutters.

 

 

Wes rounds the end of the bed, gestures to Spike to give him room. "Tell me what happened."

 

 

"Came up here to have a few words," Spike says. "He seemed fine at first. Worked up about things, but all right. Then he grabs his head and yells. He said something just now, but it made no sense."

 

 

"Xander, can you hear me?"

 

 

"He never says anything about it, but the arm pains him a lot," Spike says. "For this to break through that background noise, make him yell like that, I'm telling you it's got to be bloody fierce."

 

 

"Xander--"

 

 

Xander's eyes flutter open, and he struggles to a sitting position. "There's a man," he huffs, still trying to catch his breath. "Born with two, then one was torn from him. Now he has two again."

 

 

"Good lord," Wes murmurs.

 

 

Bollocks. "We've lost him again." How the fucking hell had that happened?

 

 

"No. I don't think so."

 

 

"He's switching sides," Xander mutters. "But you can't trust him. Never trust him."

 

 

"Can you tell me anything more about this man?" Wes presses.

 

 

"Christ," Spike spits. Last thing Xander needs is someone faffing around asking him the color of the sky in his own personal crazy world. "Do something."

 

 

"I believe he's had a vision."

 

 

Vision? Lovely. Everyone's gone barmy.

 

 

"Come on," Xander says impatiently. His attention is focused on Wes. "You're looking at him."

 

 

"What do you mean?"

 

 

"Two eyes, right? Then Caleb fucking gouged one out of my head. Then she gave it back. Who else could that fit?"

 

 

"But why would you tell us not to trust you?"

 

 

"Why should you? My brain was just hijacked. Again."

 

 

"Why would you tell us?" Wes asks reasonably. "Who else could that fit?" he repeats to himself. "Born with two. Then-- Christ." Wes surges to his feet, the blood draining from his face. "Lindsey. I have to warn Angel."

 

 

And then he's gone.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander leans back against the side of the bed, a bit shaken. "Well, that was interesting. In a largely not-good way."

 

 

Spike offers a hand to help up, and he hauls himself to his feet.

 

 

"Damn. That was some kiss." He's looking at the candleflame, not at Spike, embarrassed.

 

 

"Can always have another go."

 

 

"Sure. In a bit, maybe." He comes off vague and distracted, and Spike mentally curses himself for pushing it now.

 

 

"Need something for the headache?"

 

 

"Nah, it's not so bad now."

 

 

Faded into the background noise of the ache in his arm, he means.

 

 

"Watcher thinks you had a vision."

 

 

"Fantastic. Prophecy for fun and ... profit. Prophets. Fun with prophets. Though it doesn't sound that fun, because I keep thinking of long beards and sandals and scratchy robes, and that is so not my scene."

 

 

Spike wants to touch him, calm him, but he suspects he'd more likely send him spinning off, even more agitated. "No," he says instead. "We'll get you a silk suit and a television show. Post office box stuffed with checks."

 

 

"That's more like it, yeah."

 

 

"Did it feel like a vision to you?"

 

 

"It felt -- like someone splitting my skull open to stick some piece of knowledge inside. And to think I used to bitch about having to read a book."

 

 

"This Lindsey -- mean anything to you?"

 

 

Xander shakes his head, but a voice from the doorway startles them both. "Lindsey McDonald," Anne says. "He was a lawyer at Wolfram &amp; Hart, one of their rising stars. Here, I brought something for your headache. Is there anything else you need?" Xander shakes his head but takes the bottle of pills and glass of water she offers. "I met him a few years ago. He was smooth and charming and good looking, oozing with sympathy and concern for his clients."

 

 

"Yet somehow it feels we're about to head in a different direction with this," Xander says. "Maybe it's the ooze."

 

 

She quirks a smile. "Yeah. He and his partner worked with me on a benefit ball for the teen center. It was lavish and designed to get a great deal of publicity. And the intention was to skim off eighty, ninety percent of the whole take."

 

 

"I can imagine how well that went over," Spike says.

 

 

"You'd imagine wrong," Anne replies. "I was blinded by the prospect of any money at all, any publicity at all. Whatever pittance I could get for those kids. I'm a lot less stupid now."

 

 

"So how does he go from being a sleaze like so many others to being prophecy material?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Well, first there's the Wolfram &amp; Hart angle. As Angel warned me when I first got mixed up with him, they're kind of the home office for evil in the world. And for another thing, Lindsey only had one hand. Good looking as he was, that was the first thing you noticed about him, because -- I dunno, have you ever met someone who defined himself by some kind of absence? He made you aware of it, because he never stopped thinking about it himself."

 

 

"That gets us to 'born with two, then one was taken,'" Spike says. "Know anything about the other bit, about having two again?"

 

 

"That part, I don't know. I do remember, though, that he hated Angel with his whole soul, or whatever there was of it. Do I believe he's the kind of threat that warrants a visionary warning? Based on when I knew him, I think he'd like to be."

 

 

***

 

 

After asking again if there's anything Xander needs, Anne retreats, leaving the two of them alone again.

 

 

"Imagine that," Xander says. "Angel's made enemies."

 

 

"Never did like him, did you?"

 

 

"Never trusted him. I have a lot more faith in your soul than I do in his."

 

 

Spike starts at that. "Yeah? Why's that?"

 

 

"Well, he got his by accident. Or an evil prank, if you want to look at it that way. You went on a quest for yours. Africa, no less. Takes a little bit of doing, for a guy who doesn't take well to the sun."

 

 

"Well, there's twelve hours of night on the equator. There's that."

 

 

Xander picks up the still-flickering votive and sets it on the chest of drawers, then perches himself on the windowsill. "You know, that whole thing had never occurred to me before I went there. Not that I grew up with big-deal seasonal changes like they have in other parts of the country, but still, I got to associate colder weather with short days, heat with days that went on forever. That was an adjustment, being somewhere the sweat just drips off you, and boom, six o'clock and it's dark. Caught me by surprise a time or two. People started getting after me, like -- as Faith would say, like I was some kind of retard. Weird to be in a place where everyone knows only an idiot is out after dark. Though it makes the whole slayer gig a lot more complicated." He smiles, looks down at his hands. "You're probably ready for me to go back to the vow of silence thing."

 

 

"Like hearing you talk about Africa."

 

 

"I like talking about it. A lot more happened to me there than--" a flicker of a pause, no more -- "just that. I just don't know how to get into it. I'm not sure the others are interested in me as more than, I don't know, some kind of phenomenon."

 

 

"That's bollocks," Spike says softly. "Everyone in this house wanted to bring you out safe from that dark craziness."

 

 

Xander fidgets, shifting his weight on the sill. "Well, watchers, they have that whole problem-solving fetish, and--"

 

 

"Christ, you're thick!"

 

 

Xander blinks.

 

 

"I suppose you're right. Why should anyone take an actual interest in the likes of you? You fling yourself right into a battle with any sort of nasty even a slayer might think twice in fighting, you're unshakable in loving the people you love and hating the ones you hate, you'll still fight tooth an' nail with the ones you love if you think they're wrong, you give 'em strength when they doubt themselves. You make 'em laugh. Don't know why they put up with you, m'self." He's no good at this heartfelt shite. Not since he gave up the rhyming couplets. Truthfully, he was no good at it then. He shakes out a cigarette, sticks it in his mouth. "Goin' out for a smoke."

 

 

Xander opens his mouth, might even be about to tell him to wait, when the doorbell rings downstairs.

 

 

That's a sound they haven't heard.

 

 

"Fuck me dead," Spike says. "Could be we've got our first client."

 

 

***

 

 

Spike strongly suspects it was Wes's intent to give the potential client a private consultation and then bring in team members as needed, but he hasn't reckoned on four extremely bored demon hunters. Still, Wes swallows his dismay as he ushers their rain-soaked visitor into the office and discovers them all loitering at the edges of the room. Anne, at least, makes herself useful. She takes away the tray full of candles, the marshmallows and biscuits, and asks their guest if he'd like coffee, tea or a soft drink.

 

 

"Uh, soft drink, I guess. Anything's fine." Their visitor sets his backpack at his feet as he settles into a chair at Wes's invitation.

 

 

Spike pretty much stopped thinking of him as a client the moment he walked into the room.

 

 

He's just a kid, really, not much older than Buffy and Xander and that lot when Spike first blew into Sunnydale. His face is still rounded, about as open and guileless as a youth these days can manage to look. That by itself rules him out as one of Anne's, even though he's the right age. Not to mention his clothes, the standard uniform of the college student, but well-made, expensive, not Wal-Mart shoddy. Other than the crinkled and rainstreaked AAAAA Seraphim Investigations flyer in his hand, there's nothing about this kid that indicates he's got any problems.

 

 

"I'm Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, and these are my associates, Faith, Xander and Spike. Anne will rejoin us in a moment."

 

 

The kid seems a little unnerved by the size of his audience, but he nods. "Collin. That's with two L's. Uh, Rice."

 

 

Wes finds a fresh legal pad and a pen. "Tell me, Mr. Rice, how can Seraphim Investigations help you?"

 

 

"I dunno. This whole thing feels a little silly now."

 

 

"I assure you, many of the clients who pass through this door feel the same way."

 

 

Spike manages not to smirk openly at the thought of their huge case load.

 

 

Wes continues smoothly, "However, as it states on our flyer, we have experience in a wide variety of unusual circumstances. That includes the paranormal."

 

 

"Oh. Well, I don't exactly know if this is that weird." He thanks Anne as she hands him his soft drink. She finds a chair beside Xander. "I feel kind of stupid now, trying to think of a way to put this into words. Kind of gullible, for even checking this out. I mean, it's crazy."

 

 

"I'd say you're being wise to get an independent opinion," Wes says. "Everything you say here is strictly confidential, whether you decide you'll work with us or not. This consultation doesn't obligate you in any way."

 

 

The kid pushes his dust-colored hair back from his eyes. "Okay." He flicks a glance at Faith and at Anne. "I feel like a dope. There's this guy who approached me on campus. Not a student, an older guy. But still fairly young. He says he's got something important to tell me."

 

 

"Would that be UCLA?"

 

 

The boy shakes his head. "Stanford."

 

 

Wes pauses in his note-taking. "You've come quite a distance."

 

 

"I know. My girlfriend and I are down here for the weekend visiting her folks. I happened to run across one of the flyers last night when we were out, and, I dunno. Like you said, I thought I'd get an unbiased opinion. Plus, I didn't want this getting out. Around campus, I mean."

 

 

Wes nods. "I take it you've listened to this important information he has for you, and it's the nature of that information that brings you here."

 

 

"Yeah. I mean, if he was just telling me how I could accept Amway as my personal savior, I'd tell him to get lost and that'd be that. Except, well, I have told him to get lost."

 

 

"But he hasn't."

 

 

"No. He says I have a destiny. He's got some kind of mission to make me understand that. Totally crazy, right?" He's looking like he wants to bolt.

 

 

"Old hat is more like it," Spike says. "Who bloody doesn't have a destiny? Look in the right places, and prophecies are a dime a dozen."

 

 

"Spike--" Wes directs a schoolmarmish look his way, then turns his attention back to the kid. "I'm sure he gave you specifics."

 

 

The kid nods. "He said--" He sips at his soft drink, squirms in his chair a bit. "He made it sound like I'm some sort of -- well, champion is the word he used. Like I've got some sacred duty to help people, protect them from bad stuff. Okay, I spent a few years in the Boy Scouts and all, but that just sounds ... weird."

 

 

"How did he propose you provide that help? Again, I'm thinking if he was recruiting you for the local police academy, the CIA or the Marines, you wouldn't be here."

 

 

"If he said he's SD-6," Xander says, "don't join up."

 

 

Wes sighs. "As you see, you have my crack staff at your disposal."

 

 

The boy laughs and relaxes just a bit. "If it was Jennifer Garner in latex, I wouldn't mind so much either. We're talking more -- I dunno -- capes and tights. Superhero stuff."

 

 

"Bitten by any radioactive spiders lately," Xander asks, "or is he suggested rich-guy vigilante action?"

 

 

Before Wes can even draw breath to vent his irritation at the interruption, Collin says, "Well, that's the funny thing." There's a long pause, which everyone allows to stretch out. "I was fooling around in the freeweight room at the gym, and I guess I can lift a lot. I don't even know how much. People started paying a lot of attention, so I said I'd hit my limit, but I didn't feel like I was anywhere near it."

 

 

"Spider bite, then," Xander says.

 

 

"I guess. Except not really."

 

 

"Sounds kind of like the Slayer mojo to me, Wes," Xander continues. "Except, of course, he's got the wrong set of chromosomes. Heard anything out there about something similar on the guy side?"

 

 

"I haven't, but I can send out some feelers. In the meantime, Collin, tell me more about the man who approached you."

 

 

"Okay, here's more weirdness for you. He claims he gets visions. That's how he knew where to find me."

 

 

"Visions," Xander murmurs.

 

 

"Yeah. Crazy, huh? He said it was like his head split open, and he saw things. People in trouble."

 

 

Wes's pen flies across his legal pad. "Anything else you can tell me?"

 

 

"I dunno. Regular guy. Jeans, shirtsleeves kind of guy. Longish hair, brown. Tattoos, I think. He told me his name, just the one. It was Irish sounding. Boylan, something like that." He rakes his hand through his hair. "Wait. Just one syllable. I remember. He called himself Doyle."

 

 

***

 

 

The breath that hisses between Wes's teeth startles them all.

 

 

"You know this guy?"

 

 

"I never met him, Collin, but I have friends who were very close to him. I strongly doubt this man is Doyle."

 

 

"Why's that?" Collin asks.

 

 

"He died some four years ago."

 

 

"I don't get it." He's all jangly energy, the boy. Feet shifting, hand tapping the wooden arm of his chair. "Why would this guy pretend to be some other guy who's dead? Why this crap about visions?"

 

 

"I can assure you," Wes says, "the part about visions is true. At least in regard to the real Doyle. He in fact passed his talent on to another. However, we know who that visionary is, and it's not your impostor."

 

 

"So why pretend to be this guy? It's not like I've heard of him, that this crazy story about being a hero has any credibility because it's supposedly coming from this Doyle guy. None of it makes any sense."

 

 

Wes considers this. "Not if this is directed at you, but what if the real target is someone else? Someone Doyle meant something to?"

 

 

"That's got to be Angel," Faith states. "He and I talked a lot, sent letters back and forth, when I was in the slammer."

 

 

That earns a sharp glance from Collin, a flush of his skin as a few dozen girl-on-girl prison fantasies no doubt bloom in his head.

 

 

"Doyle was important to him," she goes on. "Angel went for the mission thing, hard, and it tore him up when Doyle died. From what I remember him telling me, Doyle was mostly a loner. It was Angel and Cordelia who cared about him, and Cordelia's gone. And there was an ex-wife, but I don't know anything about her."

 

 

"Gee, between him and the ex, which seems most likely to inspire a cockeyed -- I mean elaborate -- scheme like this?" Xander asks.

 

 

No one needs to say it, but Spike does. "Angel."

 

 

"Right around the time we've got an idea that one of his old enemies is up to something," Anne adds.

 

 

"Angel who?" Collin asks.

 

 

"Just Angel," Wes responds. "He's the head of the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"This still doesn't make any sense. I don't know him, he doesn't know me. So why go after me to get to some guy here in L.A.?"

 

 

"I don't know," Wes admits. "Has he made any reference to Wolfram &amp; Hart, to L.A.? Claimed to have any visions that might lead you here?"

 

 

Collin shakes his head.

 

 

"Has he claimed any other visions? Attempted to lead you to someone in need of your help?"

 

 

The boy shifts in his chair. "Yeah, well. There was this one girl on campus. Some guy was after her, and I helped, that's all."

 

 

"Some guy," Spike repeats.

 

 

"He had, I dunno, some weird kind of mask on. Just a guy, yeah."

 

 

Spike rises and approaches the kid. "Did he look, I dunno, like this?" He gives the boy a bit of the fang, stepping forward.

 

 

The kid leaps to his feet, his chair clattering behind him. "Jesus!"

 

 

"Spike!" Wes shouts. "For the love of god."

 

 

Spike shakes off his game face. "If our little playmate has got this kid fucking about with vampires, he'd better know what he's facing."

 

 

"Vampires?"

 

 

"Yeah, right, children of the night, bloodsucking fiends, the whole Anne Rice orgy."

 

 

A smile twitches at the corner of the boy's mouth. "Cool."

 

 

"They'll kill you if you get careless, if that's on this week's list of what's cool. I happen to have a soul, but there's exactly two of us out there. It's the rest you have to watch out for."

 

 

"I think I know where you were going with this, Wesley," Anne says. "You think maybe this fake Doyle is building up to something involving Wolfram &amp; Hart and Angel?"

 

 

"As Collin keeps pointing out, nothing else makes sense."

 

 

"So what now?" Collin asks.

 

 

"If you choose to hire us, I think the next step is to send someone to your campus to wait for him to make contact again."

 

 

"If we're thinking it is Lindsey McDonald," Anne says, "it should probably be someone he wouldn't recognize."

 

 

"Lets me out," Faith says.

 

 

"And Anne, and myself," Wes says.

 

 

"Doesn't know me from Adam," Spike says. "I'll go." Anything to get out of this bloody deluge.

 

 

"You may not know him," Wes says, "but I'm not certain that works both ways. Wolfram &amp; Hart has quite an extensive file on Angel, and Lindsey McDonald was one of the two attorneys there who made him their project. Believe me, they know about you."

 

 

Balls.

 

 

"I guess that leaves me," Xander says. "Flying Under the Radar Guy."

 

 

Spike doesn't like the thought, and from the look on Wes's face, he'd bet he's not alone.

 

 

"The next step is up to you, Collin."

 

 

"I guess maybe I should hire you. How much does this kind of thing run?"

 

 

"We do have a student rate."

 

 

Oh, bloody hell.

 

 

"Fine, let's take care of some paperwork." Wes pulls out a fresh manila folder. "Do you spell your last name just as it sounds?"

 

 

"No, it's R-E-I-L-L-Y."

 

 

Spike smirks. "That the Irish spelling of 'Rice'?"

 

 

"Whaa-- Oh. Shit."

 

 

"You're not the first client to give a false name, either," Wesley says calmly. "Your first name? For our records."

 

 

"Oh. Um, Connor. Two N's."

 

 

Once they're down to bookkeeping, Spike decides it's time for that long delayed smoke. He's down to the last few drags when College Boy and Wes emerge onto the doorstep and the kid sprints for his car.

 

 

Spike pitches the fag end into the street and turns back to the house, followed by the watcher.

 

 

"Guess I should get packing," Xander says.

 

 

"Not so fast," Wes says. 'Before anything else happens, I think we should have a discussion about the visions."

 

 

***

 

 

"Sure," Xander says, but in the one word Spike hears a whole world of exhaustion.

 

 

"Is this necessary now?" Spike asks.

 

 

"No, it's all right," Xander says. "I need to know."

 

 

"Let's find somewhere private, then," Wes suggests.

 

 

"There's not a person in this house who hasn't seen me crazy, filthy, stinking -- except Faith, and I stabbed her."

 

 

"Believe me, those Slayer dreams were pretty full-spectrum," Faith says. "I don't think I missed much."

 

 

Xander snorts. "Thanks. Didn't need that last illusion anyway." He offers Wes a shrug. "So why hide anything now?"

 

 

"If you're certain."

 

 

"I'm never certain, Wes, but I never let that stop me. Only one condition: I want the s'mores back."

 

 

Anne laughs and ruffles Xander's hair as she passes by. "No, you sit. I've got it." A little thrill passes through Spike. This one small gesture, not even directed at him, gives him a gift he hasn't had in a lifetime. Just like that, he feels himself part of a family. The urge for a cigarette sweeps through him, the desire for something to do with his hands, a focal point for his attention. He sits still with it, though, riding out the surge of feelings.

 

 

After Anne returns, Xander holds a giant marshmallow over candleflame and says, "Okay, two significant things occurred to me: First, Wes was totally on top of this thing. I'm flopping around spouting the weird and cryptic, and Wes is all yawn, oh yes, a vision. Second, he told our client that he's never met Doyle. So that means, if I'm not jumping to conclusions, that someone else had them, someone he's spent plenty of time with." He settles his browned marshmallow between two chocolate-covered biscuits and pops the whole thing into his mouth. Once he's swallowed, he says, "I'm thinking maybe it's a certain someone whose warm dead lips were recently touching mine."

 

 

Wes looks up abruptly. "Cordelia kissed you?"

 

 

"Yeah. I guess you were out of the room."

 

 

"That's why she came," Wes says softly, almost to himself. "The Powers That Be needed a new conduit."

 

 

"So Cordelia had these? A lot?"

 

 

"Yes. Doyle passed them to her before he died. In a kiss."

 

 

"Helluva social disease," Xander says. He sounds oddly calm. "How long did she have them? What were they like for her?"

 

 

"Yours was a representative sample. Sudden, accompanied by an excruciating headache. Cryptic, offering the small piece of a puzzle. An address, or a glimpse of a demon, an image."

 

 

"I'm thinking 'excruciating' is really underrated as a word," Xander says. "You just don't hear it that much."

 

 

"I must say, this development has me worried," Wes says.

 

 

A twitch of a smile. "Why is this failing to surprise me? 'Development' and 'worrisome' just seem to go hand in hand." Xander's calm is growing a bit threadbare.

 

 

"Cordelia's headaches grew worse and worse," Wes continues. "In time they would have killed her. These visions -- they're too much for a human."

 

 

"They killed this Doyle?"

 

 

Wes shakes his head. "He was half demon. He could withstand them. He didn't know when he passed them to Cordy that they'd harm her."

 

 

"Then either she's still really pissed at me over that Willow kiss, or things are just that desperate. Shit!" He jerks his flaming marshmallow from the flame and blows it out. "Are these visions what put her in the coma?"

 

 

"No. That was --" Wes sighs. "A very long story. In fact, Cordy had found a way of tolerating the visions. She willingly became part demon."

 

 

Xander eats the blackened marshmallow directly off his chopstick and pokes the point into a fresh one. "Okay, that's where two paths diverge in the woods. Because me? Not doing that."

 

 

"I wouldn't recommend it," Wes said. "I've always feared that this is what made her vulnerable to the forces that overtook her. Her behavior before she fell into the coma -- it wasn't her."

 

 

"But she took this demon thing into her head, or wherever."

 

 

"She told me a demon guided her into a vision of her life if she'd never received the visions. She refused to tell what she'd seen, but she came out more determined than ever to keep the visions. Cordy did say she met a young woman, also human, who'd had the visions. They'd ultimately blown off the back of her skull."

 

 

"Flying brains and toasting marshmallows," Xander says. "Not that compatible." Despite his words, he continues turning his marshmallow over the candleflame. "So how do we know this demon wasn't feeding her a line of bullshit to make her take this demon part? To -- I dunno, sabotage the visions, or turn her evil --"

 

 

"Or prepare the way for her to give birth to an ancient goddess."

 

 

"Or that."

 

 

"I don't think I'd let myself contemplate that," Wes says slowly. "That it was a manipulation." He looks down at the tatty carpet. "No. There were x-rays. Cat scans. Her brain was deteriorating."

 

 

Xander casts a glance up toward the ceiling. "Y'know, this is the kind of present you break up over. Not-- So what's your recommendation, Wes? No demon parts for this boy, but let's skip the brains shot out of a cannon effect, too, all right?"

 

 

"If you were interested in having sex with a Groosalugg --"

 

 

"Don't even finish that sentence. So tell me -- if these things were killing her, why was Cordy so determined not to give them up?"

 

 

"Because she was helping people. The visions led us to people who needed saving. It generally works a lot better than flyers."

 

 

"I wish I'd known her," Xander says softly.

 

 

"But you--"

 

 

"I dated her and I loved her, but most of the time, the Cordy I knew ... well, her idea of altruism was dropping her gum wrappers on the floor so the janitor had job security."

 

 

"We all grow up eventually," Anne says quietly.

 

 

Beg to differ there, Spike thinks, but he says nothing.

 

 

"What if maybe he's protected somehow?" Faith asks. "The goddess changed him, you only have to look at him to see that."

 

 

"That's a possibility," Wes says. "I'm not sure it's one we can prove, other than seeing in two years' time if you're still alive."

 

 

"Well, this has been a real upbeat conversation," Xander says, "but I've got packing to do." He hands his just-assembled s'more to Anne.

 

 

"I'm coming too," Spike says.

 

 

"Thanks, but I've pretty much got the packing thing down."

 

 

"To Stanford, lackwit."

 

 

"'Lackwit,' that's good. And no."

 

 

"Thanks, I try to keep 'em fresh. And yes."

 

 

"I must agree with Spike," Wes says. "Apart from the insults. We don't really know yet how you'll tolerate the visions. If you should have one while you're pursuing this case, I'd be happier if you had backup."

 

 

"We just had this long conversation about why I'm the only person this Lindsey won't recognize."

 

 

"I am good at skulkin', you know."

 

 

"No you're not. You leave at least two dozen cigarette butts behind wherever you lurk."

 

 

"Skulkin' and lurkin' are two different--"

 

 

"Boys," Faith warns.

 

 

"Humor us, Xander," Wes says.

 

 

"Sure, yeah," he says after a moment. "Company would be nice." He rubs at his temple as he excuses himself to go pack, but when Spike comes upstairs a few moments later, Xander's light is already out.

 

 

***

 

 

By the time they start the drive up north in the necro-tinted Viper Spike nicked from Wolfram &amp; Hart, it's beginning to look like Xander's resumed the vow of silence. Spike attributes it to the early hour, though, and lets him sip his coffee in peace.

 

 

Relative peace. "Can't believe you drink that flavored swill."

 

 

"It's a tactic. It makes the convenience store coffee almost bearable."

 

 

"Just doesn't seem manly somehow."

 

 

"Oh, I'm plenty manly enough for you, pal, and Jesus, I can't believe I let you maneuver me into saying that."

 

 

"I bloody well put the 'man' in 'maneuver,'" Spike says, but Xander refuses to be goaded into speaking again. Spike's happy enough to let the silence rest on that last exchange. He doesn't know if it distracts Xander from thoughts of exploding heads and demon parts, but it works nicely on Spike.

 

 

The rain lightens as they reach the fringes of Los Angeles, but neither of them comments on that fact. By the time they're approaching the university, Spike's grateful for the treated glass.

 

 

"What d'you make of the kid?"

 

 

"Seems nice enough."

 

 

Which is not what Spike was getting at -- the kid's not looking to date his daughter -- but he lets it go. At least Xander's talking.

 

 

"I can't get over that innocence. That this is the first time he's brushing up against anything like this. I lost that years before I got to his age. Lost it when I met Buffy."

 

 

"D'you regret that?"

 

 

"I'd be dead if I hadn't met Buffy." A pause. "And anyway, it's not really true. By the time I was fifteen, it wasn't innocence anymore, but willful blindness, Sunnydale style. I don't remember when I was --"

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"I was gonna say 'like him,' but I never was like him. I realized what it is about him. He feels safe. Not so much right now, that's why this weirdness has him rattled, but this is a blip, a hiccup in his life. He's always felt safe, always felt wanted and -- This is not a kid who spent his childhood walking on eggshells."

 

 

He thinks back to William's childhood, Victorian as it was. His mother more demonstrative, of course, but Papa too -- Of course it took someone who'd never known that security to see it evidenced in someone else.

 

 

"Maybe I should find out where Collin grew up, raise my kids there. Clearly not a demon hotspot."

 

 

"Connor, remember? You plan on having kids, then?"

 

 

"Actually, I don't think so. I feel like a demonic lightning rod. I'm not sure they'd ever be safe. Plus--"

 

 

"What?"

 

 

But he evades the question. "Why pick this kid? But more than that, why scam him with the Doyle thing? Why pick a name that only means something to a handful of people and then play this out hundreds of miles from those people?"

 

 

"From Angel, you mean."

 

 

"Yeah, from Angel. There's got to be some kind of connection, because Lindsey -- if that's who this is -- is using the name for some kind of effect. He has to know that Angel's going to hear the name, or there's no point. What's the connection?"

 

 

"Maybe we should do a little snooping, see if we can find out." Connor and the girlfriend would be flying back in the early evening; Spike and Xander had come up early to get the lay of the land.

 

 

"How's your snooping skills, Ace?"

 

 

"Top notch," he says. "Somewhere above lurkin', and only slightly below skulkin'."

 

 

"Think we should take a look around the kid's place?" He rummages in his jacket pockets for the paper with Connor's contact information. "No sweater-sniffing, though."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"Don't think Riley didn't tell me about that."

 

 

"Evil bastard, is what you are."

 

 

"Hey, I'm from the hometown of evil. Sunnydale produces evil like Detroit spits out cars." Something in his voice changes as he looks out his window. "Make that 'produced.' I think you want to take a left up here."

 

 

***

 

 

They're expecting another once-grand house that's been turned into a frat house, with painted-sheet banners hanging from the balcony and a sofa with its guts tufting out in the yard. But Connor lives a couple of blocks on, in a more modest two story. There's an SUV in the drive.

 

 

"This isn't actually his hometown, is it?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Don't remember him saying."

 

 

"That's the place, but keep driving. We can't just break in, but I've got an idea. Head back to campus, we'll stop at the bookstore."

 

 

Spike stays in the Viper having a smoke while Xander runs his errand. He watches the students going about their business, the girls covered in barely enough fabric to keep 'em out of jail, the boys wearing enough yardage to house a family of Bedouins. Though Xander's not that much older than the seniors, he doesn't even look like he belongs on the same planet as these children. It's his eyes, the way he carries himself. He had his four years of college, and then some, during a few months in Africa.

 

 

He's gazing across the street when a student opens the passenger door of the Viper and smoothly gets in. Spike's hand flashes out and grabs a handful of red t-shirt. "Look, mate, you want--" But when he's turned to face the intruder, he sees it's Xander, who's applied some local color. A pair of baggy sweats, the t-shirt with basketball players and 6th Man Club across the chest and flipflops.

 

 

Xander laughs. "I guess that reception means I can still pass." He stuffs a plastic drawstring back with his own clothes under the seat, then peels a Used sticker off a textbook. "Too bad they don't sell used notebooks, too." He scrawls a name -- not his own -- on the cover of the notebook in pen, then opens the car door, leans out to scuff the front of the notebook across the sidewalk a few times. He checks his handiwork, decides he's buffed enough of the shine off the cover. "That'll have to do. Let's head back."

 

 

The woman who answers the door makes Spike think of Joyce. Maybe she does Xander, too, because he seems perfectly at ease with her as he barrages her with a densely worded story about a text book he has to make sure Connor gets, and when is Connor expected back? Oh, man, I'm going to be working my shift then, and he absolutely has to get this, and I've gotta explain what's going on with my part of our project, and can I just write him a note and leave that with the book on his bed or something? Sure, I understand you can't let me in his room, can I just leave it right there at his door so he'll be sure and see it? This is so important, thanks, you're saving my life here, do you have a pen?

 

 

Upstairs, first door on the right, she tells him, and Xander tears a page from the back of the notebook as he strides toward the stairs.

 

 

Spike smiles and nods at the woman, shuffling his feet on the wooden porch.

 

 

"Oh, please, come in," she says. "You can wait for your friend inside. Are you a friend of Connor's too?"

 

 

***

 

 

Spike smiles and nods at the woman, shuffling his feet on the wooden porch.

 

 

"Oh, please, come in," she says. "You can wait for your friend inside. Are you a friend of Connor's too?"

 

 

"Met him once or twice, is all." He gestures toward the upstairs, as if to say Xander's the one who brought them together. "You're too young to be his mum." Which is only true if you squint, but it's never the wrong thing to say. Besides, he's fairly certain she's not. In the collection of family pictures, there's not a single one including Connor.

 

 

"Oh, no. He just rents the room for the semester. He's a great kid, though, just a joy to have around the house. You're not in his class--?"

 

 

"Actually, yeah." The subtle air of disappointment she gives off amuses him. He's a bad man. "I'm what they call a nontraditional student these days. Back when I started at university, we just called 'em 'them old gits'. Took off a few years, then got serious again."

 

 

She smiles. A flirt, this one. "Traveling, or wild oats?"

 

 

"Bit of both, to be honest."

 

 

"Europe?"

 

 

"Some, yeah. Far East and Africa, too."

 

 

"Africa? Isn't it dangerous there?"

 

 

He catches the subtle squeak of a floorboard above, and coughs to cover in case the release of pressure makes a louder noise. "Depends what part, doesn't it? Though yeah, there was a time or two I wasn't sure I was going to get another day older."

 

 

"Sometimes I think about doing one of those photo safaris, but Frank likes to return to familiar places. Anyway, a tour like that is probably tame compared to what you've done."

 

 

He's about to answer that she doesn't seem tame at all (A bad man, no two ways about it) when Xander comes thundering down the stairs, without the textbook.

 

 

"Thanks so much, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, you're a total lifesaver. Oh -- your pen." He offers it back, and claps Spike on the shoulder. "Dude. Let's go find some lunch. I could eat a horse, and that's just for appetizers."

 

 

"Nice meeting you," Spike tells the landlady.

 

 

"Same here," she says. "I'll tell Connor you two were here."

 

 

As they head down the shaded sidewalk to the Viper, Xander mutters, "Do not tell me you were working the charm on her."

 

 

"Had to distract her, didn't I? Could hear you thundering around up there like a bull elephant during the rut. So what'd you find?"

 

 

From Xander's grim expression, Spike suspects one of two things: signs of an impending apocalypse, or yet more evidence of the sunny sort of family life that he can't even touch in his imagination.

 

 

"Nothing. A lot. This isn't his house, for starters. His hometown's a couple of hours south of here."

 

 

"Closer to L.A., then."

 

 

They reach the car, but Xander stands on the sidewalk a moment, scanning the street. Nothing unusual, just kids on bikes and people washing their cars. "Yeah, but I found nothing that ties him to Angel, nothing that even points in that direction. I guess we have to wait for this asswipe to make his next move."

 

 

He gets back in the Viper, and Spike follows suit.

 

 

"Got a bit of a wait, then," Spike points out. "Connor's not due back for a few hours."

 

 

"Let's find a place to stay, then see about something to eat. I wasn't lying, I'm starved."

 

 

"You know she's going to tell him we were there. And it won't take him two seconds to realize it was us."

 

 

"That's fine. I did leave him a note. I said we'd been there on a security check, and until we get this Doyle thing sorted out, he'd better tell his landlady to be a little less trusting. Especially of overly pale assholes working the charm."

 

 

Spike laughs softly, and as he glances at Xander, he catches the merest glimmer of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

 

***

 

 

They base their choice of motel on the presence of a portico that shades the Viper and the path to the entrance. Its lobby isn't quite shabby, but it's past its -- well, a place this charmless never quite had glory days, or even a prime. It's definitely past something.

 

 

"We expensing this?" Spike asks as they approach the desk.

 

 

"Off what? You think that kid is bringing in anything?" When the young blonde with the ill-fitting gold blazer greets them and asks if they have a reservation, Xander shakes his head and says, "One room, two beds." He casts Spike a look. "No smoking."

 

 

Spike doesn't dignify that with a response. He finds himself mesmerized by the desk clerk's lips, crimson as the first welling of blood and so glossy he'd suspect he could see himself in them, if he could see himself in anything. The sight makes him peckish.

 

 

As she hands over the key cards, Spike tells Xander, "When you park the car, don't forget the cooler." He turns to the girl behind the desk. "There is a microwave in the room?"

 

 

"No, but there's one in the vending area on each floor."

 

 

Spike smirks at Xander, who rolls his eyes and heads out into the bright sunlit day.

 

 

When he returns from parking the Viper, he finds Spike stretched out on the bed farthest from the loo, cruising through the TV channels and finishing off his first cigarette. He tosses Spike's kit and the cooler of blood onto Spike's bed, barely missing his legs, and drops his own gym bag onto the other bed. Grabbing the plastic bookstore bag stuffed with his clothes, Xander turns toward the loo.

 

 

It's one of those god-awful "modern" set-ups, with the tub and toilet in its own room, the sink and mirror just outside in the entry to the room. Xander gets hung up here in front of the sink, gazing in the mirror at himself in his college student disguise. After a few moments, Spike drops the remote on the bedspread and pads silently across the patterned carpet. Xander's so absorbed in his own thoughts he's dropped his guard, letting Spike draw close enough to slide an arm around his waist.

 

 

Which he does. "Now this--"

 

 

"Gah! Spike!"

 

 

"This is skulking."

 

 

"Jesus! You scared the piss out of me." He pulled away in his initial surprise, but Spike draws him back against his body and he doesn't resist. His heart pounds as Spike slides his hand up to his chest, splaying his fingers wide to cover the sports logo as best he can.

 

 

"You're just as good as them," Spike murmurs. "Time you woke up to that."

 

 

***

 

 

"What brought this on?" Xander asks, bemused.

 

 

Bloody strange this feels, standing behind him, feeling the warmth of his body, looking in the mirror along with him, and it's only Xander who shows up there, seemingly talking to himself. He's never done this before, though he hasn't exactly avoided mirrors either, and it's damn disconcerting.

 

 

"Watching you standing there at the mirror, mooning like a fourteen-year-old girl."

 

 

That gets him to turn away from the glass, at least, but it also breaks him free of Spike's arms. Xander slips out of his arms, turns away from the mirror. "Got a lot of experience with fourteen-year-old girls?" He cocks a hip up on the sink counter, takes the coffee packet from the dollhouse-sized coffeemaker plugged in next to the hair dryer. "I've already seen my dead ex-girlfriend -- one of them, anyway -- and had the whole oracle deal dropped on me -- without being consulted, I might add. Getting the self-esteem speech from Spike is just a little more otherworldly than I'm ready for."

 

 

"Not trying to do you any favors. Just bleedin' bored, is all."

 

 

"Bored? I think you can play Nintendo on the TV. You're paying for it, though."

 

 

"Bored with this shite: I am a lowly laborer, not fit to lick the boots of the college boys. Same song an' dance for the last four years."

 

 

That takes him aback. "Oh, bullshit."

 

 

"'S true. Ever since Buffy and Red matriculated." Spike lets the word roll off his tongue in a way that makes it sound slightly dirty. "Used it to split your little circle up, back when I was evil. Could cause a lot of mayhem without firing off the chip if I wanted to get subtle about it."

 

 

Xander scoffs. "Subtle. That's rich."

 

 

"You're just like this Lindsey prat we're after." That earns him another reaction. "Not just the had two, lost one, has two again bit. You've got your missing hand too, that you never let anyone forget. Only for you, it's your lack of schooling. Odd thing is, when Caleb put his thumb in your eye, you carried on. Joked about it, fought with anyone who tried to let it make a difference. And now, when the pain in your arm would make lesser men scream. You're spending your days swinging a hammer, because there's no use letting it cripple you. What do you let cripple you? This." Spike plucks at the red t-shirt. "You think you have no right wearing this, and someone who does is somehow better'n you."

 

 

"You're full of shit," Xander mutters, but he won't meet his eyes.

 

 

"Yeah. Well, here's the thing. There's nothing stopping you from being a college boy too. You're smarter than half the kids out there you think do belong in this." He flicks a finger at the shirt. "Only thing is, it won't magically change who you are. It won't stop you from thinking some people are better than you. That's up to you, not four years of listening to tenured old fucks droning away in classrooms. Or listening to me drone away, for that matter." He plucks the coffee packet out of Xander's restless hands, then goes for the offending t-shirt. As it falls to the carpet beside the waste bin, Spike says, "There. Have a look. Feel better now?"

 

 

Xander turns back toward the mirror, regarding himself. Spike slips his arms around him again, but instead of sliding his hands upward, he goes south. Xander gasps and closes his eyes.

 

 

"No, pet," Spike whispers. "Eyes open. I want you to see."

 

 

He slides the college-logo sweats down past Xander's hips, and with his hands and the friction of his body from behind, works him until he cries out and his legs shake. "Look at yourself," he murmurs as Xander shudders against him. "S'all I want from you. Open your eyes at last and see."

 

 

***

 

 

After he'd had his go with Anya, Spike had the grudging suspicion that anyone who survived a couple years with her would walk away (or hobble. Or crawl.) with certain skills. Proving Spike's assertion that he's a bright boy, Xander translates his skills well to the male-male. He's barely steady on his pins again before he has Spike's clothes off, finding new uses for that expressive mouth of his. At the same time his talented hands are busy close by, doing things that wrench a hoarse shout from Spike.

 

 

"Jesus god," he pants once the synapses in his brain stop shorting out. "Where did you learn that?"

 

 

"Years of video gaming." Xander waggles his fingers and thumbs in demonstration, and Spike finds himself getting half hard again.

 

 

Xander lets his hand drop to his sides. "What time did Collin -- Connor -- say he was getting back to town?"

 

 

"Round six, wasn't it?"

 

 

"Won't be long before we should expect his call. If not when he gets to the airport, definitely when he gets home and sees my note."

 

 

Spike casts a glance at the bedside clock. "We've got time for a quick --"

 

 

"Shower and a trip through the drive-through."

 

 

"Shower sounds good to me," Spike says, and bounds up to head Xander off. Just as he hoped, Xander doesn't let that deter him. He steps into the shower behind Spike, and they find a way to maximize their time.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander's time estimate is considerably off. There's time for the shower, the drive-through, the liquor store drive-through (another reason Spike adds to his list of why regular old earth is preferable to any hell-on-earth he's imagined) and back to the motel where Spike heats up his own Happy Meal in one of the ceramic mugs set out by the in-room coffeemaker.

 

 

"I don't like this," Xander says once they're back to the room. "Something's happened."

 

 

"I'll tell you what's happened. They've spent the whole weekend at her mum and dad's. They're back at her place or some other favored spot, where they're shagging like minks to make up for lost time."

 

 

"Great, I'm happy for him. But does he want our help with his Doyle problem or not?"

 

 

"You sound more like a man who hasn't been shagged senseless in the past three hours."

 

 

"So you're saying I'm talking sense, then."

 

 

Spike ignores that, sipping at his blood. A little burnt-tasting. It's hard to judge timing on those industrial microwaves. At least it's not in a styrene cup. You don't know true evil until you've had blood heated in styrene.

 

 

"You went," Xander says. In response to his undoubtedly blank look, he clarifies: "To college."

 

 

"Yeah, I went."

 

 

"Back when you were a Victorian gentleman." He regards Spike closely, as if trying to picture that. "Why do you go to such lengths to hide it?"

 

 

"What lengths? There's very little I work at, Harris. You should know that."

 

 

"That's not how Victorian gentlemen talk. What was it, My Fair Lady in reverse?" He puts on a British accent, heavily influenced by Giles but leaning toward parody. "The rain in Spain -- oh, good Lord." He switches to Eliza Doolittle. "The riiiine in Spiiiiine -- oi! I believe the bleedin' bugger's got it!"

 

 

Spike hides his smile behind the cup of blood.

 

 

"Do it for me," Xander says.

 

 

"Do what?"

 

 

"Your real voice."

 

 

"Piss off."

 

 

"C'mon. Just once."

 

 

"No."

 

 

"Why not?"

 

 

Spike's immensely relieved when Xander's cellphone noodles its stupid little ditty. Xander has a brief conversation with someone who's obviously Connor, and agrees to meet him in ten minutes. He flips the phone shut.

 

 

"Connor. He hasn't had any word from his Doyle, but he thought he'd go to a student hangout where the guy made his first approach. It's a pool hall not far from campus. Sounds like your kind of place dark, smoky, potentially seedy."

 

 

Oh, too right. There's no place Spike would rather be than a place where drunk young men gather to compare testosterone levels, armed with long, tapered wooden sticks.

 

 

He drains his mug and sighs, swinging his boots down from the hideous motel bedspread.

 

 

***

 

 

There's still the danger of Lindsey twigging to Spike's identity, so they indulge in some creative wardrobing. Xander puts the sweats back on, topped by one of his own shirts. Spike slips on the red t-shirt, which hangs halfway down his thighs. Xander has a flash of inspiration and produces a pair of his pants, which Spike cinches at his hips with his own belt. The fabric pools around his ankles. All he needs is the family of bedouins. "I'm depending on you. How do I look in this?"

 

 

Xander smirks. "Like the second reel of 'The Incredible Shrinking Man.'"

 

 

Spike offers the two-finger salute. "Get stuffed."

 

 

"You look happening. You look now. But we need to hide that Day-glo hair. We'll go back to the bookstore. They've got knit hats."

 

 

Christ. Not only is he going to wind up accidentally staked in a pisshole that smells of cheap domestic beer, he's going to die looking like a right prat. There's a bright side: At least he'll dissolve into dust rather than lying in an undignified heap until the authorities haul his corpse away. And he's not complaining about the lack of a reflection, either.

 

 

When they reach the pool hall, Spike's almost glad of the bright knit cap he's got pulled down over his ears. Anything to muffle the painfully bad alt-rock bleeding from the sound system, punctuated by the crack of billiard balls. Conversation is the low rumble of a train approaching the station, but as the night wears on it'll be the roar of the express barreling though.

 

 

Oh yeah. Just his sort of place. Every sodding booth is decorated with a beer logo plastered on a mirror. He nudges Xander and points to an example.

 

 

"Connor? Where?"

 

 

"No, you git. The mirror. They're everywhere."

 

 

"Well, that's not good." He points out a small table in a dark alcove decorated with a badly composed scattering of dull historical photos. "That looks to be out of the sightlines of any mirrors. Why don't you snag that one and I'll keep looking for Connor."

 

 

He seats himself in the corner, watching Xander as he moves through the room. This used to be his element -- someplace very like it, anyway. Now, even dressed like the others, he looks apart. Watchful, ready, poised for movement if things go sour. Spike can imagine him like this in the chaotic streets of an African city, never blending in because of his white skin, but somehow managing not to stand out. Xander flashes his ID and some money at the bar, glancing around the room as he waits. The two beers he accepts from the barkeep completes his camouflage. He finishes his circuit of the place, a bottle with a plastic cup overturned on top in each hand, and when he makes it back to Spike's table, he has Connor and his bird in tow.

 

 

The girlfriend is not what Spike expected. He'd thought the boy would go for someone as bland as himself, but he's found himself a quirky beauty with glasses and dark corkscrews of hair. Bit thick in the waist, but a rack that keeps you from dwelling on that for too long. She looks like a girl with a ready laugh.

 

 

"You remember Spike," Xander says.

 

 

Despite his complete loathing of the costume he's wearing, Spike still finds amusement in Connor's double take.

 

 

"Sure, yeah." He gestures to his girl. "Alyson, Spike. Spike, Alyson. Listen, our favorite booth is over there. Come on over, and we'll get a pitcher."

 

 

"Thanks, no," Xander says. "This guy might not approach if you have too many people around you. We'll just chat here a couple of minutes, then you'll make your way back to your booth, stopping to say hi to a couple of other friends. If you see him but he doesn't make the approach, send Alyson off to the ladies room for a while. We don't want to put any obstacles in his way."

 

 

"Sure, fine."

 

 

"Nice meeting you," Alyson says.

 

 

"You too, love," Spike says, putting the throbbing sex appeal into his voice, just to see if anything will counteract this ludicrous ensemble. As Xander would no doubt say, it's like a Kryptonite suit. His powers are neutralized.

 

 

"Hey, would you do that thing again?" Connor asks. "With your face."

 

 

Menace still works in this outfit, but barely. "What am I, a fucking jukebox? Next time I 'do that thing,' Sonny Jim, you'll be pissing your trousers."

 

 

Connor takes a step back. "Guess I'll be seeing you guys then." He leads his girl back to their favorite booth.

 

 

Xander sets the beers down, then parks himself at the table, facing the room. "I knew my Spike was under there somewhere."

 

 

No reason for that statement to give him this much pleasure, but it does.

 

 

***

 

 

Might as well be waiting in a bus station, for all the entertainment value this place affords. Spike would prefer that, actually, since he'd be free to pace and nip out for a fag now and then. With the mirror situation in here, wandering around is a potential way to dusty death.

 

 

He makes this observation to Xander, pointing out as well that a bus station might have the edge in cleanliness as well.

 

 

"It's just peanut shells. It's a thing. I don't know why it's a thing, or if it's a particularly American thing, but there's a distinct thinginess here."

 

 

"Just because a thing's a thing, doesn't mean it ought to be," Spike says.

 

 

"Anyone ever tell you you've got a streak of the effete?"

 

 

"No, because most people know what it means."

 

 

And right there's a flaming example of the wrong thing to say to Xander Harris. He looks away, a tic pulsing in his jaw.

 

 

Oh, Christ. "Didn't mean anything by that. I was just takin' the piss."

 

 

"I'm not bothered," Xander lies. "We came here to watch for this guy, and we might actually have a chance of seeing him if we leave the piss where it belongs." He shifts subtly away from Spike, his long fingers tapping an irritating rhythm on the scarred wooden tabletop as he gazes out over the room.

 

 

After a few long moments of that, Spike croons in a annoying singsong: Self-esteem is for everybody, self-esteem is for everyone. You can bite or do anybody, self-esteem is how you get it done.

 

 

"What the fuck are you singing?" He's definitely left the Gary Cooper behind. This is the sort of annoyance that wouldn't have gotten the slightest rise from him a few days ago.

 

 

"Some shite off the telly. Kiddie show, puppets and all."

 

 

"You can bite or do anybody?"

 

 

"It was somethin' like that."

 

 

"Anyone ever tell you your singing is for shit? Assuming, of course, that I understand what that means."

 

 

"Bloody hell!" Spike yelps.

 

 

"Oh, did I crush your self-esteem?"

 

 

"Singing, you git. Lorne." That earns him a blank, though somehow simultaneously irritated, look. "Right. You haven't met. Lorne's a demon who works with Angel. When he hears people sing, he can read the truth about them. Their future."

 

 

"Yeah, so what?"

 

 

"Maybe it's a way of getting at the story with this kid. His connection with Angel."

 

 

"Huh. It's a thought, I guess. Though let's just hope we get it figured out tonight. This Doyle guy shows up, we lean on him, he tells us, then we collect the fifty-seven cents we're gonna make off this case."

 

 

"Start thinking of ways to spend your share. Connor's bird just got up. She's on her way to the bog."

 

 

"Maybe she just wants to pick some cranberries."

 

 

"No, here he comes. Plaid shirt over there. There's our bogus Doyle."

 

 

***

 

 

Xander makes a nonchalant trip to the bar for a pitcher of the $2 swill, which allows him to loiter there idly fiddling with his cellphone while he waits. He'd made quite a campaign of getting Wes to embrace the Dick Tracy, as he put it. He's proving his point now by sending Doyle's picture back to Seraphim as he leans on the bar, bantering with the barkeep.

 

 

He still wears his clothes a bit loose in the asinine fashion of the day, but some lines of his body can't be hidden. His shoulders which, now that Spike thinks back, were always broad -- almost ludicrously so when Xander was a rail-thin teen. It occurs to Spike to wonder if the boy's schizophrenic fashion choices stemmed as much from the difficulty of finding things to fit those shoulders as from a complete absence of taste.

 

 

His video gaming hands. Quick, agile, possessed of a kind of jittery grace.

 

 

Suddenly, Spike's bored (correction: even more bored) with the stakeout, cliche of every buddy movie ever made. He'd rather go back to their room and make this another kind of movie altogether. Under other circumstances (fewer mirrors, for one), he'd consider marching over to the bar and hauling Xander out with him. Plan A, slow, steamy sex back at the motel. Plan B, a knee trembler in the alley outside. He lets himself imagine that, the hot gusts of Xander's breath on his neck, the heat of his hands, of his whole body. Much as he cared for Dru, as inventive and shameless as she was, he missed that heat. He wonders if Xander misses it, how he truly feels about Spike's cool skin against his.

 

 

Bugger this. He thinks too much. Always has. (Except, of course, when he's blundering about like a madman in an attempt not to think. But even in those cases -- especially in those cases -- there's likely some overthinking going on somewhere in his head.)

 

 

Fake-Doyle abruptly rises from the booth just as Xander turns away from the bar with the pitcher. Xander makes an almost balletic recovery, sloshing a bit of beer on the smaller man, but avoiding a major spill. Hearty apologies are tendered from both sides, with Xander offering to buy Fake-Doyle a beer, but he says it's all right, he was just leaving.

 

 

Spike is on the move by the time their target hits the door. Xander sets the pitcher on Connor's table. "Don't go anywhere until we come back or call."

 

 

Spike's mood has improved considerably by the time he hits the outside air. Even tinged with the scent of garbage from the alley, it's fresher than inside.

 

 

He's braced by the feeling that things are about to happen. Knee trembler or dust-up, either works for him.

 

 

***

 

 

He gets neither.

 

 

He's putting on a burst of speed when Xander catches up to him and bars his way with an arm across his chest. "Hold up, Ace," he says quietly.

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"All we're doing right now is finding out where he's staying. Then we circle back and get the story from Connor. That's when we decide what we do next."

 

 

Bollocks.

 

 

"You sent his picture to Wes?"

 

 

"Yeah. It's Lindsay McDonald. So whatever he's up to with Connor, it's definitely aimed at Angel."

 

 

"Christ, he's looking back." Spike shoves Xander into a recessed doorway and presses his mouth against his, slipping one hand under Xander's shirt, bringing the other around for a rear attack.

 

 

For just a heartbeat Xander gives in to it, gasping, parting his lips to Spike's advance. Then he pulls back, panting. "Hey. Hey. I think I've been punked here."

 

 

"He was looking 'round. If he recognized you, he'd wonder why you'd buy a pitcher of beer just to leave."

 

 

"You've got a point."

 

 

Spike grins. "Hate to admit it, don't you?"

 

 

"Let's move before we lose him." They trail him first to a liquor store, then a nondescript hotel a step or two below the place with the portico. "What's that about? He's with Wolfram &amp; Hart, right?"

 

 

"Was," Spike says. "Didn't Wes say he left LA after the evil hand?"

 

 

"Yeah, right. And there's your lesson to take away. Live below your means, boys and girls, and squirrel some cash away. I know there's a 'money stiffens the root of all evil lawyers' joke just begging to be told, but it's too much work to make it funny."

 

 

"Love," Spike says reflexively. "Sorry. The quote."

 

 

"Love is the root of all evil? I'm pretty sure not. Unless it's love roots out evil."

 

 

"The love of money." He manages, he thinks, not to sound like a pedantic ass this time.

 

 

"More Victorian gentleman lore?"

 

 

"Biblical lore."

 

 

"Same thing, isn't it?"

 

 

"Close," Spike admits.

 

 

"We didn't have any lore," Xander says. "In my family, I mean."

 

 

"Sure you did." Spike lights a fag. Harsh, unfiltered -- just the way he likes it. "It's what you breathe in from living with your mum and dad." He sends forth a stream of smoke, watching it hang in the still night air. "Like secondhand smoke."

 

 

Tick off another item on the list of things better not said around Xander Harris. He goes silent again, nothing to say until they find themselves at Connor's booth. Alyson's sharing a plate of onion rings with him. She sits on the same side of the booth with him, thigh-to-thigh on the bench.

 

 

Xander flicks him a look and then slides onto the bench facing them, parking himself square in the middle. Spike doesn't let this deter him from taking his place beside him. It takes just Spike's thigh pressing against him to send him scooting to the far end of the seat. Spike plucks an onion ring off the pile.

 

 

"Okay, so this is where it gets really goofy sounding," Connor says.

 

 

"I guarantee you we've heard or said weirder," Xander responds. "Go on."

 

 

"So yeah, he's talking about this law firm in LA. Wolfram &amp; Hart. That's the place you were telling me about, right? Where this Angel guy works?"

 

 

"He runs it now, yeah," Spike says.

 

 

Connor smirks. "Well, this Doyle or whoever makes it sound like a towering fortress of evil."

 

 

"That part's pretty much right, from what little I've heard," Xander says. "Lindsay -- we've had positive ID on him, he is Lindsay McDonald -- he ought to know. He used to be one of their rising stars."

 

 

"Huh. He acts like he digs ditches for a living. Anyway, he's trying to get me involved in this elaborate plan to get him past the defenses of Wolfram &amp; Hart. No, he hasn't told me what it is yet, I can just tell it's elaborate. He just gives off an elaborate scheme vibe. Right now I'm supposed to be mulling it over, deciding whether I have it in me to assume my heroic destiny and all that crap. He said he'd be in touch. Acted like he's waiting for one of these vision things."

 

 

Xander picks now to give a strangled yelp and clutch his head with both hands.

 

 

"Hey!" Connor cries. "Hey, what's going on?"

 

 

Alyson chimes in. "Are you okay?"

 

 

His only answer is a few loud pants, like those of an injured animal. After a moment, he sits back in the booth, dropping his hands. "Sorry," he says, his breath still huffing in and out. Sweat glistens on his face, and his color's not good. "Migraine."

 

 

"You need something?" Alyson asks.

 

 

"Nah, I'm good. Anything else you can tell us, Connor?"

 

 

"Not really. Just more mysterious stranger crap, trying to work me up to whatever he's got planned."

 

 

"What's your plan?" Spike asks Xander. "Faff about here for a few more days waiting for Lindsay's next little droplet of drama?"

 

 

"No," Xander says. "We go over to his hotel right now and light him up."

 

 

***

 

 

This time they take the Viper, which erases some of the sting of being dressed like an idiot.

 

 

"What'd you see?"

 

 

The grim set of Xander's jaw is straight out of one of those buddy movies, cop subgenre. "Nothing we're gonna let happen." What he needs, something else haunting him.

 

 

Spike decides to offer a distraction. "This line of work suits you. The rock-jawed private dick act is making me hard."

 

 

"I'd venture a guess and say breathing makes you hard."

 

 

"I don't do that habitually, you know."

 

 

"Do what? Quote from World's Cheesiest Pickup Lines?"

 

 

"Breathe, Sunshine."

 

 

"Sunshine?"

 

 

"You called me 'Ace.'"

 

 

"Wes," Xander bleats in a whiny tone. "He started it."

 

 

Spike covers a smirk. "Where do we park this thing? Doesn't exactly blend in here, does it?"

 

 

"I feel better parking close," Xander says. "Didn't you say this came from Wolfram &amp; Hart? It's probably got its own security system. Anyone fucking with it breaks out in fluorescent pustules." He pulls the car along the curb across the street from the hotel. "Let's roll."

 

 

Some movie cliches are true: Twenty bucks gets them Lindsey's room number. As they climb the stairs to the third floor, Xander mutters about how he should've spent the money on a fake badge, which would have accomplished the same thing but would be reusable.

 

 

Spike's not sure if they have an actual plan when they reach Lindsey's door, but Xander thumps on it as if they do.

 

 

"Yeah," comes the impatient response.

 

 

"Night manager. There's a problem with your payment."

 

 

"The fuck there is," he says through the door. "I paid cash."

 

 

"I know. You paid too much."

 

 

Right. Like that's going to--

 

 

McDonald opens the door a crack, and Xander shoulders his way into the room, shoving McDonald ahead of him until he stumbles against the far wall, which is not that distant.

 

 

"Doyle, my man. You're looking exceptionally good for a dead guy."

 

 

"Who are you?"

 

 

"Oh, I think I'll stick with 'night manager.' I manage things that rear their ugly heads in the night. Like pest control on a mystical level. You're pretty gullible for a lawyer. Or maybe greed short circuits your common sense."

 

 

"I don't know who you think I am, but--"

 

 

"Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey. That's a hint, but I'll let you figure it out. I came here to chat with you about a college boy named Connor Reilly. You're gonna tell me what the fuck you want with him."

 

 

"I don't know what that kid told you, but I just bought a little pot from him. That's all."

 

 

"That's a simple, straightforward explanation." He pins McDonald against the wall with a hand at his neck. The other holds a stake, which is pressed against the soft flesh under McDonald's jaw. His voice is reasoned and friendly. "That would work for most people. However, I tend to believe the complicated, farfetched explanation for things. So why don't you tell me yours."

 

 

"Whatever you're after--"

 

 

"By the way, you might want to invite my friend in. He's the one who reins me back when I get a little too into my work."

 

 

Spike shifts from where he's been leaning against the doorjamb. "Oh, I'm in. Just felt like watchin' you go." He closes the door behind him.

 

 

McDonald looks for the source of the voice, but Xander digs the stake in a little deeper.

 

 

"Let's stay focused, shall we?"

 

 

"You've got the wrong --" The rest is swallowed by a yelp.

 

 

"Let's cut the shit," Xander says pleasantly. "Tell us what you're up to, and why this kid is significant."

 

 

McDonald reaches up to grab Xander's wrist, but in a heartbeat Spike and Xander have him pinned against the wall, arms stretched out. Black glyphs cover the skin of the forearms that extend from plaid shirt sleeves. Spike can see just the suggestion of more at the V of McDonald's shirt.

 

 

"Well, lookie here," Xander says to Spike. He grasps the placket of McDonald's shirt and yanks, sending buttons flying around the room . He shoves the shirt off the smaller man's shoulder, revealing a whole canvas of flesh covered in more of the same markings.

 

 

They remind Spike of the ancient words that covered the skin of Faith when Xander's goddess had possessed her. Power and mystery.

 

 

"Look familiar?" Xander asks him.

 

 

Indeed they do. They're the same markings Cordelia had brought them from her vision.

 

 

***

 

 

It almost gives Spike a headache to look directly at the tattoos. Xander, however, seems unaffected. "Nice ink," he says conversationally. "Want to tell us about 'em?"

 

 

"They're just tribals."

 

 

"Sure, yeah, flash page number 47 down at Bert's Body Mod. Right next to the page of Yosemite Sams. Tell me something here, Lindsey. Because it makes me testy when people waste my time. Start wherever you want -- these symbols, Connor Reilly, your choice of phony name -- I don't care which."

 

 

"Who are you with?"

 

 

A drop of blood wells from the skin below the point of the stake.

 

 

"Like the t-shirt says, I'm with stupid."

 

 

McDonald's gaze flicks back to Spike.

 

 

"I've got the matching shirt." He points toward Xander. "I'm with stupid."

 

 

"Spike? You dropped off the radar, where did you go?"

 

 

&gt;Xander slams him back into the wall. "I'm asking the questions here. I've always wanted to say that. But enough about me. Tell me something interesting."

 

 

"Who are you? You work with a vampire, but you carry a--"

 

 

"I'm a guy who's getting increasingly bored. So what do you say we stop dicking around here, and you start telling me something I want to hear."

 

 

"I've already said all there is to say. I scored some pot off the kid, and if he's saying otherwise, he's full of it."

 

 

Xander heaves a mighty sigh. "Let's try introducing another topic. Maybe this one will suit your fancy. Let's hear about the visions. Pretty exotic stuff. I hear they're painful. Are they something like this?" Next thing Spike knows, Xander has a fistful of McDonald's hair and has slammed his head back against the wall. "I don't know. That didn't sound like it hurt enough. Cause when I get 'em? Painful." He thumps McDonald's head against the wall again, a bit harder this time. "That's closer, but still...."

 

 

McDonald blinks, his eyes watering. "You have visions?"

 

 

"What part of 'I'm asking the questions' is challenging your understanding here?" Xander's fingers are still threaded through McDonald's hair. "Tell me what you're planning with the kid and what it has to do with Angel, before I get really testy."

 

 

"Fuck you. I'm telling you nothing."

 

 

"Fine. Let's move on to the not-so-idle threats portion of the evening. Stay away from the kid. Stay away from Angel and his people. Yeah, we do know where this is all headed. I were you, I'd go so far as to get the hell out of California, in fact. I guarantee you'll be sorry if you don't." He flicks a look toward Spike. "Is this the part where I inflict some unexpected violence to underscore how serious I am?"

 

 

"I believe that's optional."

 

 

"Ah." Xander drives his knee into McDonald's groin, leaving him curled on the ratty carpet, gagging and coughing. "I'm a full-service guy," he says. "I'm serious, Lindsey. If you're smart, you'll get the fuck out of Dodge."

 

 

Xander turns and brushes past Spike, out into the hallway.

 

 

Nice work, my little droogy. He catches sight of Xander's sickened expression, and bites back his remark.

 

 

What the hell has he seen?

 

 

***

 

 

Neither speaks as Xander marches stiff-legged to the car, Spike trailing behind. He stops at the curb in front of the hotel, his arm extended toward Spike. The keys dangle from his hand, which Spike would swear is shaking slightly.

 

 

As he puts the keys in the ignition, Spike asks, "Back to the motel?"

 

 

"The bar."

 

 

He glances over. There's a tic madly pulsing at Xander's jaw. Aware of his scrutiny, Xander mutters, "Fucking shit."

 

 

"It was for the greater good, yeah?"

 

 

"I wanted to throw him through the window."

 

 

Spike shakes a fag out of the pack from his coat. "Wouldn't've left the world a worse place if you had." The effect on the world is not what's worrying him, though. Spike realizes that.

 

 

"I didn't change anything. He didn't tell us shit."

 

 

"We know he's the one connected to those symbols. That's something. Wes is still trying to sort that out."

 

 

"He's still going to do whatever he was planning."

 

 

"You don't know that."

 

 

"Oh, come on. You saw his body. A guy doesn't cover himself in mystic tattoos then let a knee to the nuts change his mind. He's a true believer, even if all he believes in is revenge."

 

 

He pulls the Viper into the parking lot at the side of the bar. "What did you see?"

 

 

But Xander gets out of the car without giving an answer. Spike heaves a sigh and follows, pausing only long enough to wrench the knit cap from his head and arrange his hair as best he can without a mirror.

 

 

He pitches the cap onto the asphalt, then follows Xander inside.

 

 

***

 

 

At first Spike thinks Xander's waited for him as he stands just inside the door, but he's just paused to search the place for Connor. Another pack of students has taken over Connor's booth.

 

 

"Could be playing pool at the back," Spike says. The cigarette haze has descended over the room, and as he predicted, the decibel level has shot up.

 

 

"Wait there in case I miss him, and I'll check."

 

 

But before he's worked his way down half the room, Xander spots the kid racking his cue and draining the last of his beer. His girl's already left, or she's off picking cranberries. Xander turns and signals to Spike to catch up with him. They reach Connor just as he's pulling on his jacket.

 

 

"Hey. I didn't know if you were coming back or not. How'd it go?" It sounds all breezy and casual, like he's asking how it went asking some girl to a dance. Spike's about ready to revise his opinion of Connor from "innocent" to "flat-out stupid." So bleedin' stupid he'd have fit right in in Sunnydale.

 

 

"I want you to come back with us," Xander says flatly.

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"Now."

 

 

"I got an exam in the morning."

 

 

"Make it up or something."

 

 

"It doesn't work like that," Connor says. "This is a big test, I can't blow it off. Why, what'd this guy tell you?"

 

 

"He wasn't really talking. But this is serious too. What he's got planned is ugly, and he doesn't care who gets caught up in it. This guy plays in the big leagues, Connor."

 

 

"Great, but I've gotta go on with my life. I'm not fooling around with this. This class is connected to my major, and it's taught by the head of the department. I blow off this test, and he decides I'm not serious. It's my future, and I'm not playing around with it."

 

 

"That's exactly what I'm--"

 

 

Spike catches Xander by the arm. "Hang on a minute. He may have a point. What's so crucial about getting him to L.A.?"

 

 

"What? Protection. And I want him to meet this guy you were telling me about. The one who reads people."

 

 

"That flash you got. Could you get any idea about where it was?"

 

 

Xander looks off into the middle distance as he considers. "Someplace corporate. Big money. Real wood, not veneer." Trust the carpenter in him to notice this detail amidst whatever was haunting him.

 

 

"Wolfram &amp; Hart," Spike says.

 

 

"Could be."

 

 

"Flash, what flash?" Connor wants to know.

 

 

"Maybe he's safer here," Spike points out. "Plus nothing says we can't bring the mountain to Mohammed."

 

 

"What d'you mean?" Xander asks.

 

 

"We get Wes to call Lorne." Spike turns to the kid. "Do you like karaoke?"

 

 

***

 

 

After they've finished with Connor, Xander falls back into his silence. It's the long kind, Spike can feel it, that not even an annoying kiddie song will penetrate.

 

 

Once they've returned to the motel, Spike's first order of business is shedding the horrendous disguise he's been forced to wear. He pulls the belt from the trousers' loops with a flourish, and they puddle at his feet. "While I've got me trousers down--" But when he turns to look at Xander, he discovers he's talking to an empty room. The sound of the shower starts up in the tiny bathroom.

 

 

Spike sighs. "Right," he says to the closed door. "I'll make that call to Wes, then." He finishes getting his clothing sorted, then puts in a call to Seraphim. It turns into a long, contorted three-way (a sentence he'd never have considered could have negative connotations before tonight), but finally he gets things arranged to his satisfaction. The shower's still going when Spike finishes. Again he sighs and says, "Right." He stubs out his cigarette and rises.

 

 

The door, at least, isn't locked. Spike steps into the steam and sheds his clothes once more.

 

 

The shower curtain hooks screech on the metal pole, so it can't be a surprise when Spike steps into the spray behind him. Xander doesn't react at all, just stands with his hands braced on the wall on either side of the shower fixture. His head bowed, he lets the spray beat down on his neck and shoulders.

 

 

Spike lays his hand on Xander's shoulder. "There's a difference between rage and craziness. Especially when there's good reason for rage, yeah?"

 

 

Xander shakes his head, water spraying off his long hair.

 

 

"The powers gave you the visions for a reason. Maybe because they'd make you angry enough to do what it takes to stop him. Like you said, he's fanatic enough to ink himself top to toe." He puts his other hand on Xander's shoulder and begins kneading the clenched muscles. "Maybe they'll need someone who's willing to pitch the sorry fuck out a window."

 

 

Xander bats Spike's hand away, turning to face him. "Maybe I'm fucking sick and tired of being everyone's chosen hatchet man, ever think of that?" He clutches his arm like it's paining him worse than usual, but Spike suspects it's just the memory of driving a knife deep into Faith's belly. "I signed on to find slayers in Africa. That was the contract, nothing else."

 

 

Spike reaches out and grips him at the scruff of the neck. "'S all right."

 

 

"It's not. Nothing's all right."

 

 

"It's all right to be nail-spitting angry. To be overwhelmed and scared."

 

 

"Yeah, well, I don't want any of that, either. Fuck all of it. Rage, righteous or not. The visions, the mission, the big bad. Fuck Connor and his happy childhood. Fuck you."

 

 

Spike cups his other hand behind the first. Warm water streams onto Xander's neck and on down Spike's arm. "That's all right too. Why don't you tell me what you saw?"

 

 

"What do you want from me?"

 

 

"I'm not asking. I'm offerin.' You see the difference."

 

 

Spike's not sure he does, considering how long it takes him to speak again. Xander tips his head back under the spray, closing his eyes. Finally he steps forward, gliding his hands over his hair to press out the excess water. "Bodies and blood," he says. "The kid, his girl, others, lots of them. Like some apocalyptic battle broke out in the executive offices of, I dunno, Enron or something. There were entrails. In large quantities."

 

 

Spike massages the back of Xander's neck. "'S all right," he says again.

 

 

"It is not. All. Right."

 

 

"We'll stop it, yeah? That's how it works, what Wes said. We'll make it right."

 

 

Xander doesn't answer this, but he allows Spike to draw him closer, allows himself to be enfolded in his arms.

 

 

"It's all right," Spike says again, and this once, Xander doesn't argue.

 

 

***

 

 

He wakes to the novel sensation of heat. A live body spooned with his, a back rising and falling with breath against his chest.

 

 

He snakes his arm beneath Xander's, placing his palm over his heart. He's deep in sleep, finally. It was a difficult night, punctuated with bad dreams and liberally splashed with probably ill-advised shots of bourbon from the bottle Spike had lifted from McDonald's room.

 

 

Whatever works.

 

 

Xander begins to stir. Spike has the feeling Xander could more easily handle the idea that they'd fucked than the notion that he'd let himself be held all night and nothing more. He slips from the bed, pulls on his jeans, and starts the miniature coffeemaker on the sink counter.

 

 

When Spike lets himself back in the room with his own mug of microwaved blood, Xander is sitting up, rubbing his face with his rough carpenter's hands. "I totally spaced on calling Wes last night," he says.

 

 

"Taken care of. Lorne's got some appointment he refuses to break, but he'll be here by evening."

 

 

"Tell me about this guy again?"

 

 

"Not technically a guy, is he? He's a demon. Fred told me about his world, she spent several years lost there. Vampire can go right out into the sun, she says, and see himself in the mirror. But the demon inside is purer, closer to the surface."

 

 

Xander yawns. "Fred's a demon too?"

 

 

"No. She's a girl. Sweet little slip of a thing, from Texas. Got the brain of a Stephen Hawking, she does."

 

 

"Does she keep it in a jar on her desk?"

 

 

"Anyone ever told you you have a sick mind?"

 

 

"Has anyone ever told me I don't?" He throws back the covers, walks naked across the room to pour himself a cup of coffee. "Thanks for making this." He has himself a few good-sized swallows before he bothers to pull on his own trousers. "So what's the plan till he gets here?"

 

 

"Arsin' about works for me."

 

 

"Can that actually be called a plan?"

 

 

"Sure it can."

 

 

Xander makes a run to a nearby diner, bringing back an enormous quantity of breakfast foods, even though it's nearly noon by time he returns. They spend the afternoon exercising their video-gaming hands, both on the in-room Nintendo and on each other.

 

 

As they're dressing once more, Xander watches Spike thread his belt through the loops on his black jeans. "You look a lot happier than you did last night."

 

 

"A man's clothes send a message to the world," Spike declares.

 

 

"In your case the message says 'Dresses left.'"

 

 

"Lucky guess, or have you been noticing?"

 

 

Xander takes the Fifth, changing the subject. "I wonder why this Lorne wanted to meet us at the bar instead of someplace more private."

 

 

"Used to run his own bar, is my understanding. In L.A. people -- demons as well, I'm told -- came to get their destinies read."

 

 

"Through karaoke?"

 

 

"'S what I hear."

 

 

"Think he could tell me mine? Like whether the visions will make my brains explode out the back of my head?"

 

 

"Could, yeah."

 

 

Xander considers this and goes quiet again, not speaking until they're almost at the bar. "So I'm guessing he's a demon like Anya. Blends in most or all of the time?"

 

 

But before Spike can formulate an answer to that, they spot a limo at the door of Connor's hangout. The driver has just opened the door and Wes steps out, followed by Lorne.

 

 

Spike's not sure which thing it is that produces that look on Xander's face: the green skin, the horns or the cobalt blue suit with flame red shirt.

 

 

"You have to be shitting me," Xander breathes.

 

 

***

 

 

"Does this guy -- sorry, demon -- have any sense of self-preservation at all?" Xander asks as they head for the door.

 

 

"He gets along fine, you'll see."

 

 

In fact, once they get inside, Spike sees he's done a fine job smoothing the path. Wes and Lorne are already ensconced at an out-of-the-way table, covered, unlike the others, with a white tablecloth topped off with fresh flowers. The mirrors decorating the room have been whisked away. A spotty young man bustles past Xander and Spike, mumbling, "Grapefruit and cranberry. Grapefruit and cranberry."

 

 

An older man -- the owner, Spike guesses -- heads them off as they make their way toward Lorne's table. "Can I help you two?" he asks in that way that means he'd rather help them out the door.

 

 

"We're with Mr. Smith," Spike says, and the man's manner suddenly changes. He ushers them to the table, taking their drink orders as he walks with them, lingering a little too long to ask if everything's all right with the others. All going according to plan.

 

 

"Spike, why don't you explain our reception," Wes suggests by way of hello.

 

 

"It wasn't pleasant?"

 

 

"Excruciatingly pleasant," Lorne says.

 

 

"Right, then," Spike says. "Don't believe you've met Xander here."

 

 

Xander offers his hand without delay, but Spike can sense him keeping himself under tight rein. "Nice meeting you."

 

 

"Thoroughly charmed," Lorne responds.

 

 

"Xander might want to sing a bit for you later. Dunno if Wes told you. He got a little present from Cordelia."

 

 

Lorne sighs. "Poor Cordelia." Spike sees Xander relax just a fraction. "She breezed in for a visit before she -- well, after she -- she came to warn Angel, but we couldn't make any sense of it."

 

 

"That's what we're here about," Xander offers. "You know a Lindsey McDonald?"

 

 

"Ah, Lindsey. A name that pairs well with the word 'warning.' What's our little weasel up to now?"

 

 

"That's why you're here," Xander says. "He's been manipulating this kid, a student here. We know he must have some connection to Angel, but we don't know what, and the kid's not telling. He may not know. So we've got him signed up for karaoke night."

 

 

"Soonest slot I could get for him is number seven," Spike says.

 

 

The owner interrupts then, bringing their drinks. "A Sea Breeze," he says as he sets down Lorne's, and pauses as if awaiting applause. Astonishingly, some breaks out from other tables, but it's only the start of the karaoke show.

 

 

"Oh god," Lorne says halfway into the first song. "I may have to switch to something stronger. The emo's pretty thick. You couldn't have found a more private place for this?"

 

 

"Spike said this was your idea," Xander says, adding an "ow!" as Spike kicks him under the table.

 

 

"Nobody likes a snitch," Spike notes.

 

 

Wild applause greets the next butcher of songs, and Lorne winces his way through "Oops I Did It Again."

 

 

"Her love life isn't any prettier than her singing," he says.

 

 

"I don't think you did say what your thinking was," Wes prods Spike. "Why a public karaoke night?"

 

 

"Might be that I'm a bit of a sadist," Spike admits.

 

 

"Remind me never to forget that," Lorne says.

 

 

They miss most of the next song as the owner brings a platter of appetizers and another round of drinks. "On the house," he says.

 

 

Spike crooks a finger, and the owner bends to hear him over the music. "Mr. Smith is feeling a bit overwhelmed by the attention."

 

 

"Oh! Absolutely! I'll see that no one bothers him." He ricochets off, back to the bar.

 

 

"Spike, why am I getting the distinct 'I don't want to know' feeling here?" Lorne asks.

 

 

"Do you see Connor?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Not yet. He'll show."

 

 

The spotty young man who went out for the Sea Breeze ingredients mounts the makeshift stage next, crooning Ben, the two of us need look no more....

 

 

"For your information, that was a Wolfram &amp; Hart project," Lorne says. "I've done a little digging into the entertainment archives. It's too juicy to resist. Anyway, both the film and the song? Both Wolfram &amp; Hart projects."

 

 

"Stands to reason," Xander says. "The rat-related slashiness of the song alone is a dead giveaway there's evil involved."

 

 

"Rat-related what?" Wes asks.

 

 

Xander waves his hand. "Never mind. This kid's not half bad."

 

 

Connor and his girl finally wander in while the next act is on, five boys and a girl, all pissed to the gills. They're slaughtering "Vehicle," which Spike remembers from its first go-round.

 

 

"Hey, there you guys are. Whoa."

 

 

"Lorne," Wes says, "this is Connor and, ah --"

 

 

"Alyson," Spike supplies. He lays on a bit of the sex appeal, and this time she notices.

 

 

"Connor," Xander resumes, "this is Lorne, the, uh, consultant Spike mentioned yesterday."

 

 

"Pleased to, uh--"

 

 

"Do me a favor, Sonny Boy," Lorne says to Connor. "Catch that girl when she comes offstage, and bring her back here."

 

 

"Uh, sure, yeah."

 

 

Two girls are launching into "Billie Jean" as the Vehicle girl accompanies Connor to their table, weaving slightly. Her eyes widen as she gets a look at her summoner.

 

 

"Sugar magnolia, I want you to listen to your Uncle Mr. Smith, all right?"

 

 

She nods, speechless.

 

 

"Those boys you sang with. They are not nice young men. You would do me a huge favor if you'd go home now. And steer clear of them in the future."

 

 

"But they're my ride."

 

 

"Right outside there's a big long limo. Give the driver your address and he'll take you right there. Aly, honey, would you ride along?"

 

 

"But I was -- sure, yeah, I'd be happy to."

 

 

"Promise you'll get your own private performance tonight," Connor says, then cringes. "Ouch. Lame." After the girls leave the bar, Connor says, "Hey, did you know there's a rumor that Michael Jackson is here tonight in disguise?"

 

 

Xander, unfortunately in the midst of a sip of beer, spits overpriced microbrew across the table.

 

 

"Spike," Wes chides.

 

 

"Why's everyone looking at me?" Spike blurts.

 

 

"You're not Michael Jackson, are you?" Connor asks Lorne. There's just a quaver of uncertainty in his voice.

 

 

"Sweet pea, you're wanted on stage." He watches Connor make his way to the stage and says, "Spike, you are a bad, bad man." His voice is filled with amusement.

 

 

Xander laughs without restraint, the first table-slapping laughter Spike's heard from him since the whole goddess business.

 

 

Lorne squeezes Xander's shoulder. "Better pipe down there, Bucko. We don't want to give the boy a complex."

 

 

Connor has taken the microphone. "Hi. Wow." He shuffles his feet. "I feel kind of like a dork. Not that I'm saying you have to be a dork to do this. I've just never sang in public. And my girl was supposed to be here for this, but she had to run an errand."

 

 

"Go for it, Connor!" someone calls out.

 

 

"Shut up and sing!"

 

 

He launches into Elvis Costello's "Alison." He's pretty terrible, but Spike doubts that accounts for the way Lorne's head snaps back, as if he's been struck.

 

 

Lorne turns a paler shade of green as the song progresses, and his hand jerks out for his Sea Breeze, knocking over Xander's beer. "We need to leave," he says when he manages to speak. "Now."

 

 

***

 

 

"I knew it," Xander exclaims. "There were entrails, weren't there?"

 

 

"What?" Lorne asks, then he waves a hand. "Later. We need to have a powwow before we talk to the kid. Is there somewhere private we can go?"

 

 

"We've got a motel room," Xander says.

 

 

"I can drive you, if the limo's not back," Spike offers. Lorne looks in no shape to be standing about outside a bar. Plus the fact that he's a green-skinned demon.

 

 

"Great. Let's scram. Wesley, be a dumpling and tell Connor to give us a couple of hours, then come meet us. Tell him we'll send the car here."

 

 

"But he's nearly--"

 

 

But Lorne's as good as his word, and the word is scram. He's out the door and halfway to the Viper before Spike can get his leather coat untangled from his chair.

 

 

Xander pauses at the entrance. "Guess I'll wait for Wes and the limo. Fuck. I know there's entrails."

 

 

"We'll know soon enough." He makes it to the Viper, where Lorne is vibrating with nerves. Once they've settled in and thoroughly ignored their seatbelts, Spike says, "Future's not looking so bright, then?"

 

 

"Not so much the future as the past. I don't know the last bit of the story, but I've got most of it, and it's not rosettes and buttercream frosting."

 

 

"Did you suss out the connection with Angel?"

 

 

"I sure did. Try this on for size: Connor's his bouncing baby boy."

 

 

"Don't know how you came up with that, but I can give you a good handful of reasons why that can't be true."

 

 

"Oh, believe me. I know all of them. We went over this a good half million times when Darla turned up pregnant."

 

 

"Darla? Fuck me!"

 

 

"Kind of you to offer, but we've got some fast thinking to do."

 

 

"As in: What are we gonna tell the kid?" Not that Spike believes all this, not really. Nothing about it makes any sense.

 

 

"That's nothing. The more urgent question is, what do we tell Wes?"

 

 

"Wes? What's he got to do with it?"

 

 

"Plenty, kemosabe. And it's all about as pretty as that knife scar across his throat."

 

 

***

 

 

Spike mulls this over. "Don't suppose you can tell this whole story in the three minutes before the others get here."

 

 

"Story?" Lorne snorts. "Saga is more like it. A series of interconnected trilogies, each part the size of a doorstop. Three minutes is barely time to mix myself the industrial-sized drink this requires."

 

 

Spike pulls the Viper into the motel carpark. "So you recognized the kid when you first saw him."

 

 

"No. You'll see why this is a complicated story. I didnt remember _any_ of this until I heard Connor sing. I don't know why, but something was blocking my memories of anything related to Connor. Same story with Wes, apparently, except he's still in the dark. Do you have any idea of the serious mojo it takes to wipe someone from one memory, much less several? Who else met him?"

 

 

They cross from the darkness to the relative glare of the motel lobby, both working the nonchalant. "Xander. Anne. Faith."

 

 

"Faith knew him. Not from the time he was in diapers, but believe me, he made an impression."

 

 

"Gave no sign of it." But it's Wes he wants to know about, and he's about to steer the conversation back that way when the desk clerk from the other night looks up from her phone conversation.

 

 

"Oh my god, he's here," she whispers, and hangs up without further explanation. She scuttles around the desk to intercept them.

 

 

This can't be good.

 

 

"Mr. Smith," she twitters. Ah. Fake news travels fast. "We didn't realize -- if you can give us a few moments, we'd like to upgrade your room."

 

 

"You're very kind, cupcake, but I hate to cause all this fuss," Lorne says with just the right tone of insincerity.

 

 

"Oh, it's no trouble at all. You'll find our presidential suite a lot more comfortable -- no extra charge, of course."

 

 

She gestures to one of the staff who are suddenly hanging about the lobby. Spike hears her urgent whispers regarding floral arrangements and a fruit basket. The clerk turns back to them. "Is there anything specific we can do for you to make things more comfortable?"

 

 

"Vodka."

 

 

"Right. The Jesus juice," Spike says.

 

 

"Cranberry and grapefruit juice."

 

 

"And Little Debbie cakes -- the full assortment, except no banana creme," Spike says. "Two tins of Kiwi shoe polish in brown, three boxes of Stayfree Maxipads and a Spokane phone directory. Those you can bring up later, if you must."

 

 

Everyone scatters as if on a scavenger hunt, while the desk clerk shows them to a small room in the motel business center.

 

 

"Who knew?" said Spike. "A presidential suite." Might be for the best, considering his and Xander's room is currently littered with lube bottles.

 

 

"I feel like I've just gotten a taste of the world of evil we'd live in if you ever had any real power."

 

 

He lights up a fag. "I'd do a lot less damage than the ones who've already got it."

 

 

The door opens, and Spike readies another handful of random requests, but it's Xander and Wes.

 

 

Wes asks the question they've been dreading. "Would you like to explain to me what in god's name is going on?"

 

 

***

 

 

"We're just waiting for our suite to be ready," Spike informs Wes.

 

 

"Suite? Spike, need I remind you that our client is nineteen years old? While I doubt he's living in poverty--"

 

 

"Don't blame me, blame the celebrity culture in this country. Free upgrade for Mr. Smith here. The ones that need the least get the most, that's how it works in this great land. Though you might want to have some decent tip money at the ready. Hate to give the King of Pop a reputation as a skinflint."

 

 

"Because it would be a shame if people thought ill of him," Xander remarks, and Spike's gratified to see the glimmer of humor. Distraction from the entrails, at any rate.

 

 

Before Wes can grow too irritated at the delay, the desk clerk arrives to escort them to the presidential suite. She seems to think her tip is tied to the number of features of the room she acquaints them with.

 

 

Xander loses the competition to be farthest from the door when she finally departs, and slips her a couple of bills.

 

 

"I'll be back with those other items as soon as we have them," she chirps.

 

 

"Just leave them outside the door, will you, love?" Spike suggests. "We have business to conduct." Once the door closes behind her, he says, "Firsties on the Jacuzzi when we're through." Though he could be persuaded to let Xander join him.

 

 

Lorne's already in the process of making himself a stiff Sea Breeze when Wes asks what he read. "Clearly you got something significant."

 

 

"I'm telling you, it was entrails," Xander insists. "That's what I got."

 

 

"Mine went in another direction," Lorne says. He downs about half of his drink. "You've been wondering about this kid's connection to Angel. It's close. The boy's not lying to you, he doesn't know about it. Not anymore."

 

 

"Odd choice of words," Wes murmurs.

 

 

"Odd is the watchword for this whole business." Lorne sinks into one of the deep club chairs. "Connor is Angel's son."

 

 

"That's impossible," Wes says.

 

 

"Believe me, I've been over this ground. _We've_ been over it." Lorne picks a nonexistent piece of lint from his trousers. "Why don't you make yourself a nice drink, honey lamb. I'll wait."

 

 

Wes doesn't argue. _Like a honey lamb to slaughter_, Spike thinks, and he's not exactly sure why. The scar across his throat that's highlighted by the light of the mini-fridge could have something to do with that.

 

 

Xander doesn't sit down or make himself a drink, standing at a small distance, like a bodyguard or a discreet waiter. Spike has sprawled in one of the overstuffed chairs, waiting for chaos.

 

 

"Some part of you already knows this," Lorne tells Wes. "What I don't understand is why you don't know -- who or what is responsible for all this. Something is blocking your memory -- Connor's too -- just as it blocked mine up until twenty minutes ago."

 

 

"This is unbelievable. When did he turn up? Where has he been all this time? Does anyone know who the mother is? And are we really sure?"

 

 

"I couldn't tell you offhand what $64,000 multiplied by four is, but those are the jackpot questions. Let's go for the last one first. Yes. We're sure. Well, I'm sure. You used to be at one point. If we can unlock this, you will be again, I'm certain of that."

 

 

"Let's start with the mum," Spike suggests. "Because god knows I'm curious how that all came about."

 

 

"Why not? That would be our old friend Darla."

 

 

"Darla," Wes breathes.

 

 

"Right," Spike says. "Impossible on top of impossible."

 

 

"I wasn't aware Angel had had contact with her in the mid-eighties."

 

 

"Well, that's just the thing," Lorne says. "The timeline's a lot screwier than that. The kid didn't just show up on the doorstep one day like it was some _Lifetime_ original movie. You practically midwifed him. We all did diaper duty -- you, me, Fred -- though I think Charles actually balked on that one. Connor was born just a couple of years ago, right outside the Hyperion."

 

 

"I've been feeling left out," Xander says, "so this one's mine: That's impossible. Darla died -- what, six or seven years ago -- in Sunnydale. So that much can't be true."

 

 

"She came back," Wes says simply.

 

 

"Of course she did," Xander says, exasperated. "I mean, who hasn't?"

 

 

"Wolfram &amp; Hart brought her back to life -- human life -- as part of their ongoing plans to corrupt or destroy Angel." Wes turns back to Lorne. "You can't mean that _this_ is when--"

 

 

"You remember Angel's beige period. Let's just say a lot happened."

 

 

Wes mulls on this a moment. "And somehow we get from Connor being a baby to this college student."

 

 

"Somehow," Lorne says, and reaches for the vodka.

 

 

***

 

 

Everyone in this bleedin' room has seen enough supernatural shite to fuel a hundred years of teenage crap cinema. So why's Lorne focusing this little tale on Wes, tiptoeing in dread of his reaction?

 

_The deb. Cordelia. "We've seen what would happen. The whole Connor thing."_ They'd all forgotten what she'd said, in the confusion following the news of her death, then Xander's vision. She'd said it as if she knew it would have special meaning for Wes.

 

 

"Connor spent some time in another dimension," Lorne says carefully. "One of those where time moves differently from here. He was gone just a matter of weeks, but when he came back, he was a member of the Clearasil generation."

 

 

Wes takes this in. "How does an infant find himself in another dimension?"

 

 

"Well you might ask." Lorne tops up his drink with vodka, skipping the juice. From a Sea Breeze to a Tropical Depression. "It was a group effort. A time-jumping demon named Sahjhan. An old enemy of Angel's named Holtz."

 

 

Spike sucks in a breath. "Christ!"

 

 

"No," Lorne says mournfully. "I think I can safely say He was not involved. There was also a girl. Justine."

 

 

"Justine?" Wes blurts. "But she was the one --"

 

 

"You remember her?"

 

 

"Of course. She conspired with a -- damn, I'm unusually fuzzy on the details. There was a demon. The two of them dropped Angel to the bottom of the Pacific -- surely _you_ remember --"

 

 

"Oh yeah." Lorne sits back in his chair, rattled. "The Fuzzy Details demon, right." He downs half his drink. "There was one other person involved in Connor's going straight from Kootchie Kootchie Koo to Teenaged Terror. Someone who was duped by a false prophecy."

 

 

Eyes on Wes, Spike watches this idea sink in. "But I'd be most likely--"

 

 

"That's right," Lorne says softly.

 

 

"You're saying I had something to do with Connor's sojourn in another dimension."

 

 

"Sahjhan opened the portal. Holtz took him through. Justine gave him to Holtz, after taking him from you. You -- well, you were convinced you were doing the right thing. Sahjhan set the whole thing up, jumping all through time to fiddle the texts. He played you just right -- you did an enormous amount of work to come to the wrong conclusion."

 

 

The memory of the conversation with the deb finally clicks. "The false prophecy," Wes murmurs. "What was it?"

 

 

"You believed Angel would kill his son."

 

 

There's silence in the room for a moment, broken only by the tinkle of ice cubes in moving glasses and more mini-bottles being cracked open.

 

 

"So this dimension Connor grew up in," Xander says. "What was it, Mr. Rogers' Dimension? Stepford?"

 

 

"About as far from there as you can get," Lorne says. He looks to Wes. "Holtz took him to the Quor'toth. Does that name ring any bells?"

 

 

"'The darkest of the dark worlds,'" Wes says. "It makes the Christian notion of hell seem like a garden spot." He frowns, staring into his drink, then he abruptly looks up at Lorne. "The Quor'toth, that's where that demon came from. The one who helped Justine trap Angel at the bottom of the ocean."

 

 

"Think a little harder," Lorne says softly. "With a little less fuzzy."

 

 

And the darkness dawns. "Connor. It was Connor, not a demon."

 

 

"When he came back, he was half crazy and all but feral," Lorne says. "There was the little escapade with the deep end of the ocean, and I'm not talking about book club. That wasn't the only time he tried to kill Angel, either. The last memory I have of him, he'd taken a group of hostages, wired 'em up with bombs. Next time I see him -- or even _think_ of him -- he's this kid. Nice as pie, if not terribly attuned to the nuances of song lyrics."

 

 

"Something erased him from our memories," Wes says. "Apparently erased his own memories, and filled in a complete new set."

 

 

Lorne nods. "The question is what or who, and why."

 

 

"Oh, c'mon," Xander says. "That one's easy. Spike and I were talking on the drive up here about Connor's freakishly happy childhood. Not that the kid described it to us, but it just _rolls_ off him. Who'd be motivated to arrange something like that? Who do we know who's the king of guilt and redemptive overkill?" Nobody really needs him to supply the answer, but he does. "Angel."

 

 

Wes is slipping into his own dark thoughts, but he rouses himself enough to say, "But the kind of power this would require--"

 

 

"Yeah," Xander says. "It has the brimstony whiff of your classic deal with the devil."

 

 

***

 

 

"The deal is precisely what we don't know anything about," Lorne says. "As far as I know, everything came back to me when I heard Connor sing, and I've got nothing on that front. But nothing says 'brimstony whiff' like Wolfram &amp; Hart, and lo and behold, right about the time we got the Spotless Mind makeover, we also walked into this deal where our Daniel becomes President and CEO of the lion's den."

 

 

"And none of the terms of this deal were laid out for us?" Wes asks.

 

 

"No. We got a tour of Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory, with each one of us getting offered the one bonbon we couldn't resist. The books, the lab, the chance to become the bald, black Perry Mason. For me, the all-access pass."

 

 

"And as a bonus," Wes muses, "an altered reality -- past and present -- with Connor carefully tweezed out. Angel made this choice, without consulting a one of us."

 

 

"Whether we ate the magic bonbon, that was pretty much where choice begins and ends. The Swiss cheese memory, no, nobody asked."

 

 

"That's high-handed as fuck, even for Angel," Spike says.

 

 

"You'd be surprised," Lorne tells them. "He's done this before. Altered the fabric of reality -- as I learned during an extremely painful Barry Manilow number some time back. Though really, Cher might've been a more apt choice." He sings in an eerie approximation of the singer in question: "If I could turn back time..."

 

 

"Christ," Wes murmurs. "When was--"

 

 

"Before you were on the scene. Though you _were_ affected. The entire world was affected."

 

 

"I realize this is big," Xander says, "and you're trying to fit all this inside your skulls. But it's off-topic. We've got a kid showing up here for his reading in a little while, and we'd better have a plan."

 

 

"We have to tell him," Wes says.

 

 

"That's one theory," Xander says. "Want to flesh that out for me?"

 

 

"Because it's what's true. Because Angel had no right to rewrite his history that way, without giving Connor any say in the matter. Because this is what's making Connor the target of Lindsey's manipulations, his ultimate plan." He sharpens his gaze on Xander, who looks unconvinced. "Which, I'm told, involves entrails."

 

 

That barb hits its mark, but Xander shakes it off. "What if we can protect him without clueing him in?"

 

 

"Shield him from the truth, the way all of us have been 'protected.'"

 

 

"Yes." There's a glint of steel here. Xander often defers to Wes, in gratitude for his help in the goddess affair, or lack of confidence stemming from that entire business. But there's none of that here, and Spike's glad to see that.

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"Because he's a kid. Because he didn't come to us and say, 'Y'know, something's fucked with my memories. Let me sing for this guy so I can be sure what my own history is.' That was our idea, a tool for us to find out why Lindsey's targeted him. Why do we want to make it into a weapon against this kid?"

 

 

"That's not the intent at all."

 

 

"I don't give a fuck about intent. This kid has a happy life. A mom and dad and a sister and girlfriend who love him. What is the point of taking that away from him?"

 

 

"It's not real," Wes says.

 

 

"It's real to him. You grow up the way I did, and you develop a real strong sense of the vibe underneath what people want to project. I'm telling you, his reality goes bone deep. You want to play god with his life, and you're indulging in pointless cruelty."

 

 

"He's living a lie."

 

 

"Oh, excuse me. It's cruelty with a point. That makes it entirely worth it." Agitated, he begins pacing, gesturing. There's just a shadow here of the crazy man who was haranguing Annie's shelter kids. "Let me go off on a tangent, all right? Every fourth or fifth episode of the original _Star Trek_, there was some planet with a stable, happy society that Captain Kirk decided was stagnant."

 

 

Wes interrupts. "I don't see what some television show--"

 

 

"That's why it's called a tangent. Let me finish. So the captain would say, 'You poor bastards, you have the perfect society. Let us fix that right up for you.' And when he leaves, everything is shittier, but by god it's _real_. And you know what? I _hated_ those episodes. It's fuckin' missionaries in space. So Wes, you're up there in orbit with your phaser banks trained on Vaal, ready to bust up Connor's happy society for the greater good. _Whose_ greater good? I agree with what Spike said -- what Angel did was high-handed as fuck. But I don't fault what he was trying to do for this kid. If you screw with this, Wes, you lose me. I pick up my visiony marbles and go home."

 

 

Xander lets that sink in for a moment.

 

 

"Now," he says after a protracted silence. "What's our plan?"

 

 

***

 

 

Wes compresses his lips in disapproval. "So our course of action is to be dictated on your philosophy concerning a television program."

 

 

"Don't be cute," Xander says. "If you want to get cute, I can start throwing around examples of when Council types care more about abstract theory -- rules, truth -- more than the people these things affect. Are you still a Council man at heart? I thought you'd learned something."

 

 

Wes draws breath to respond, but Lorne beats him to it. "Boys? Much as I love watching a good train wreck, we do have a decision to make. How does everyone feel about good old fashioned democracy?"

 

 

"Depends," says Spike, "whether we're talking the ugliness every four years, or 'American Idol.'"

 

 

"You can put it to a vote," Xander says, "but my stand's the same. I'm having nothing to do with kicking apart this kid's sand castle. Or with this organization if that's what the rest of you choose."

 

 

"I'm with Xander," Spike says. "Much as it pains me to throw my support to any decision of Angel's."

 

 

"How about you, Lorne?" Xander asks. "You're the one person here who knows the facts but also has lived with the emotional truth. Is knowing what he was, how he grew up, is that gonna set Connor free?"

 

 

"I can't say I think so. And believe me, none of us wants _that_ Connor back. Sorry, Wes, but you're outvoted. Let's find a way to protect this kid without destroying everything Angel tried to give him."

 

 

"You've been doing this mystic P.I. stuff for years, right Wes?" Xander asks.

 

 

Wes nods.

 

 

"You must have had innocent clients now and again. We treat them the same, right? Shield them, but don't give them the full _this medication may cause dry mouth, drowsiness and in rare occurrences, exploding penis_."

 

 

Spike says, "That's something that I personally might like to know."

 

 

"We dole out the terror on a need-to-know basis," Lorne says.

 

 

"That's exactly the course we follow here, then," Xander says. He strides toward the door. "Let's check on those Little Debbie Cakes."

 

 

Spike rises and joins him at the door. "Finally taking it in, aren't you?" he says in a low voice. "That you're as much an expert in some things as-- Christ, I bleedin' _told_ them no banana creme. I've half a mind to--"

 

 

"Save the tantrum for check-out, maybe we won't even have to pay for the original room." Xander pushes the room service cart into the room. "Come and get 'em, marshmallow pies. Or you could go for something with flavor and try the Maxi Pads dipped in shoe polish."

 

 

Wes isn't entering into the spirit.

 

 

Xander perches on the arm of the sofa near his chair. "Wes, do you remember Dawn?"

 

 

He frowns. "Dawn..."

 

 

"Summers."

 

 

He looks mystified for another moment or two, then looks up. "Buffy's little sister. I haven't thought of her in a long time." He smiles now. "She had quite a crush on me, it drove Cordelia mad."

 

 

"No she didn't," Xander says flatly.

 

 

A little bemused at Xander's tone, he says, "Believe me, I know the signs. She found all sorts of reasons to appear at the high school, and--"

 

 

"She never did that," Xander says. "Dawn didn't exist when you were in Sunnydale. Well, not precisely true. She existed as pure energy, as the key to an interdimensional portal. But there was no little girl named Dawn. Buffy was an only child when you knew her. Dawn didn't come along till two years later. Your memories are all mystical fakes, created by these monks who needed Buffy to protect the key. So I've gifted you with the truth. Isn't your life 1200% better now?"

 

 

He's got a streak, Xander does. If he ever went evil, Spike suspects he could go toe-to-toe with Angelus.

 

 

"You've already won your point," Wes says. "You didn't need to concoct this story--"

 

 

"'S'true," Spike says quietly. "I was with Little Bit when she found out. She was an innocent, had nothing to do with the big mojo. But it hurt her all the same, somethin' terrible."

 

 

"And it hurt us," Xander says, his voice softened now. "Knowing those memories weren't true. We made a decision to go on as if they were, because those memories changed who we were. For the better, I believe, at least in my case." He's silent for a moment, looking at his hands. "I'm not trying to beat you over the head with my point, not without a reason. I think we all need to be together on this, not just going by the majority vote. If he gets a vibe that we're not, I'm afraid he could dig for what he's not being told."

 

 

"Faith's right about you," Wes says. "You're more of a leader than you know."

 

 

Before Xander can even finish stammering out some modest shite, the suite telephone rings.

 

 

It's the desk. There's a young man named Connor Reilly to see Mr. Smith.

 

 

***

 

 

The kid tries to project cool as he walks in on Xander's unspoken invitation, but his nervousness rolls off him like -- well, like the pot fumes that even the others can't miss.

 

 

"Sweet!" Connor says. "Look at all the Little Debbie cakes."

 

 

"Help yourself," Spike says.

 

 

Connor rips into the box of banana cremes, taking two to a hand before he plops himself into a chair. Angel's boy. His and Darla's. Spike studies the open, guileless expression, trying to find them there. He sees more of William, though the boy has far more confidence than he'd ever had in his human days. "So my fortune," he says. "Must be pretty bad, huh, to send everyone running off?"

 

 

"Not at all," Lorne says. "It's a standard part of the reading. There are, uh, books to be consulted."

 

 

Connor looks around at the bland furnishings and inoffensive art and complete lack of reading matter other than _TV Guide_. "Yeah, books."

 

 

"Mr. Smith's a bit of a drama queen, that's all," Spike says. "Adds mystery."

 

 

"Well, not if you demystify the whole thing," Lorne mutters. "I assure you," he says to Connor, "there's nothing dire. I thought I spotted a connection, so we came back here to consult the oracles. Good thing I did, since I'd gotten my signals crossed. There is a connection, but it's vague, fairly coincidental. All related to where you happened to be born."

 

 

"Gary, Indiana?"

 

 

"You'd be surprised where power happens to live. So whatever it is that triggered my sniffer, that's probably what brought Lindsey to you. He believes you're something that you're not."

 

 

"So then once I tell him that--"

 

 

"You do _not_ want to have any additional contact with this asshole," Xander says. "I've had way less contact with him than Wes and Lorne, but one quick dance with him was enough. He's covered himself in mystical tattoos. Which could just mean he's a nice teddybear of a biker guy, the very soul of reason and a thinker of philosophical thoughts. Or he could be deNiro in _Cape Fear_. I know which is the safer assumption."

 

 

"I've heard him sing," Lorne adds. "Last time I did was several years ago, when I still prided myself in being the Switzerland of the supernatural world. I read anyone who came to sing, and I didn't judge. I have more of a stake in things now. He's a dangerous man, with just enough access to power that 'dangerous' is a lot more than just a romantic notion. There's something missing in him, and for a while it looked like he could find the right things to fill that hole, but now that he's back ... well, if Lindsey's let himself get sucked inside a yawning void, there's no sense letting him take you with him."

 

 

"What is he, some kind of warlock?" The word rides on a smirk.

 

 

"Worse. He's a lawyer," Spike says.

 

 

"And he's participated in the kinds of mundane evil that you associate with the worst of corporate greed," Wes says. "But he's gone beyond that, as everyone associated with Wolfram &amp; Hart before Angel's tenure has. Lindsey told you Wolfram &amp; Hart is the center of evil in this realm? Believe it. He has an insider's knowledge of the kinds of damage they do. But never let yourself believe he's on the right side in this. He's playing an angle. It's not going to benefit anyone but Lindsey."

 

 

"Well okay, but what about this stuff he was telling me? About my superpowers or whatever. Because that part's true, I could be competing with the steroidal freaks at the gym."

 

 

"I personally think it's a spell," Xander says. "It's this guy trying to suck you in to your supposed destiny. Lay low, stay away from Lindsey, and for god's sake don't go anywhere near Wolfram &amp; Hart. Live your life like things are normal, and let us handle getting them there. Sound like a plan?"

 

 

"I guess." Which fills no one with confidence.

 

 

"You got exams tomorrow, yeah?" Spike says abruptly. "You insisted on staying up here because they were so bleedin' important."

 

 

"Well, yeah."

 

 

"Then take your scrawny arse home to study. Stay out of the bloody gym, keep away from that tattooed little shit. Ply yourself with Red Bull and all the banana creme cakes you can carry off, and get your nose in the books. Preferably now."

 

 

Connor casts a look at the others, and not a one contradicts his orders.

 

 

"Uh, I guess I'll be heading off now."

 

 

"Take the limo," Xander says. "But no detours."

 

 

Spike walks him to the door, shoving a couple of boxes of cakes at him, and a bottle of Kiwi polish. "Now let's have an A on this feckin' exam, or I'll want to know the reason why."

 

 

Spike closes the door behind him and turns to the others. "Normalcy restored."

 

 

Yeah.

 

 

***

 

 

"That went without a hitch," Xander says.

 

 

"I'd say so," Spike agrees.

 

 

Xander snatches up his jacket. "I'm going to stake out Lindsey's place."

 

 

"Right. Shall I watch Connor, then?"

 

 

"If you want. We'll just end up in the same place." Xander scoops up a double fistful of cakes himself and shoves them in his pockets. "We'll report once we've got something."

 

 

Spike follows him to the fire stairs. "Are we, in fact, waiting for this kid, or just looking for a place for a knee trembler? Cause if that's the case, I think those other two should be out here, and we should be in there getting presidential."

 

 

"He's going back, you know he is. Here's one lone guy, the illustrated everyman, seeking him out telling him he has a destiny a helluva lot more interesting than economics class. Then you've got four guys in a limo staying in the presidential suite of an admittedly medium-rent hotel, saying, _No, no, stay away, very bad_. We're the ones who come off looking like the bad guys. Which, considering the fact that I've already been up there to kick the crap out of the mysterious messenger, maybe we are."

 

 

"Yeah, but the vision--"

 

 

"He doesn't know about the vision. I'm thinking maybe it's time we tell him." He goes for the Viper. "Too bad we don't have anything that isn't flashy."

 

 

"I could always--"

 

 

"No. Town this rich, we'd be behind bars before we knew what hit us." Xander pats himself in search of the keys, and Spike hands them over.

 

 

"Town this rich, maybe we don't stand out as much as we think," Spike suggests.

 

 

"Could be." Funny how they both fall silent as Xander turns the ignition, both listening for that throaty purr of a high performance engine. It's in the male genes, even the genes of a male born well before the age of automobiles.

 

 

"You think maybe the kid has a destiny?" Xander asks.

 

 

"It's crossed my mind. Son of a vampire with a soul, another who became human again? All but cries out for the Powers That Be, as Angel's people call 'em, to make you their plaything."

 

 

"You had a destiny. So does everyone have one, or do I just know an abnormally high number of people with destinies? Is it what all the cool kids are doing, or are we still the few, the proud?"

 

_We._ Interesting. "Dunno."

 

 

Xander pulls up across from the hotel in a spot with a good view of the approach and the entrance. "Maybe we're going about this all wrong, trying to shield Connor from all of this. I wonder sometimes how much you can resist the pull of your destiny. That first time I saw her in Mombasa -- what if I'd sensed something, or just been suspicious of how much room she took in my thoughts after that one glimpse? What if I'd gotten myself on the next plane to Bamako? Would that have been the end of it? I play with that idea a lot, but I honestly don't think it would have made any difference. I was hers, and she was going to draw me to her."

 

 

"You felt like you were hers even before--"

 

 

"Oh yeah. Well, 'felt' is wrong. I feel that way now. I wasn't aware of it then. But I was hers before I ever came to Africa."

 

 

"Whose are you now?" Spike says softly.

 

 

"That's the hell of it. I don't know. I think I've been cut adrift, but it doesn't mean I can't still have a destiny, I guess. Especially now." He keeps his eyes on the hotel as he says all this. "So I'm beginning to think it's the wrong tack, keeping Connor from his destiny. His destiny will find him. Maybe it's our job to make sure he can handle it. Make sure Lindsey doesn't get to him and warp it."

 

 

"Well, here's our chance. What do you want to bet that's Connor rounding the corner?"

 

 

***

 

 

It's Angel's boy, all right, all loose-limbed jangly grace like he hasn't a care in the world. Spike can't even count the number of kids he's eaten just like him, under just these sorts of circumstances.

 

 

Xander's right there on the same page. "How long do you think he'd last in Sunnydale?"

 

 

"Fifteen minutes on a good night."

 

 

"Yours or his?"

 

 

"Oh, I'd have him in three."

 

 

"Jesse walked like that."

 

 

"Who's Jesse?"

 

 

"Dead kid I knew." It's how much Xander doesn't say that tells him how important this Jesse was. "Let me start with him. I think the tag team was a bit much." Xander slips out of the car, letting the key-in-ignition warning bell ping.

 

 

The kid looks around; he's got at least that much of a sense of self-preservation.

 

 

Xander nods. "Connor. Got a date with your study buddy?"

 

 

He offers a sheepish grin. "I thought I should get both sides, is all."

 

 

Spike lowers his window, lighting up a fag.

 

 

"Oh sure," Xander says. "Important to be fair. You don't want to turn down a deal with the devil for kneejerk reasons. Hear the guy out."

 

 

"C'mon." The grin gets wider. "He's not the devil."

 

 

"No. Just worked for him, I hear. Look, Spike and I came after you because we weren't telling you the whole story back there, and well, we wanted to see if we could make a fresh start."

 

 

"Those other guys didn't want you telling me everything?"

 

 

"Something like that. This isn't the greatest place for a chat. Is there an all-night coffee shop or anything around?"

 

 

"Donut shop. Block and a half up, then two blocks over."

 

 

Spike steps out of the Viper. "Get in. I'll meet you both over there."

 

 

When Spike walks in, the place is well populated with other youths suffering from pot-related peckishness, or those just needing a quieter place to study -- marginally -- than their dorms or frat houses. Better than the street outside Lindsey McDonald's flophouse, but not by much. Xander and the boy have installed themselves at a corner table littered with crumbs and napkins, but at least the number of potential eavesdroppers is limited.

 

 

The kid bites into a jam-filled donut, and red glop oozes around the corners of his mouth and slips down his chin. It makes Spike hungry, but not for pastries. "So what's the story?" Connor asks. "What weren't they telling me?"

 

 

"It was me who didn't tell you everything," Xander says. "You remember in the bar earlier, when I grabbed my head?"

 

 

"Sure. Looked like it hurt like hell."

 

 

"It did, trust me. I was having a vision. Which, I know, you just heard this whole story from Lindsey McDonald, and here I come along saying, 'No, it's me, I'm really the one with the visions.' Doyle -- the real Doyle, who died four years ago, had them, and he passed them to a friend of mine, Cordelia, just before he died. She -- they were passed on to me, just recently."

 

 

"You see stuff about the future."

 

 

"Apparently that's how it works, yeah."

 

 

"Can you pick horses? Or the Powerball numbers? Or the next Microsoft?"

 

 

"You're an original thinker. I like that. Sadly, no. I would be having to call the demonic bookies and putting my money on monsters to win, covering the spread of entrails."

 

 

"Whoa. You get like dire stuff?"

 

 

"Yeah. It's all 'Timmy fell down the well,' spelled out in migraines instead of barking. So I had one that gave me a good idea of what's in store if you follow Lindsey's lead down to Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"What'll happen?"

 

 

"It's not linear. I just get flashes. In this case, more guts than George Romero. People will die if you go there, Connor. You. Alyson. The green guy back there, Lorne. Others I didn't recognize. Whatever Lindsey wants you to do, it's gonna trigger something. That's not the place to be a superhero, you're just going to get ground into find dust."

 

 

Connor licks jam off his fingers. "This Lorne, is that what he saw too?"

 

 

"Yeah," Xander lies.

 

 

"I think I'd rather play poker with him than with you. I dunno. No offense, but this is pretty hard stuff to swallow."

 

 

"I get that. I've been in that place, where you hear people telling you something, and you think, okay, I've taken the wrong exit into Wackaloon Heights. I'll tell you something. I'm very new to the visions, I don't have it completely down as to how they work. But supernatural shit and death? Been breathing that in since I was a kid. Long story, but I lived in a town where a lot of nasty things come out to play. One of my best buds died. A couple of favorite teachers. My best friend's girlfriend. My own fiancee. Now I've got this nifty warning system, and if people keep on dying, it's going to piss me off beyond belief. Got me?"

 

 

"Wow," Connor says. "I didn't know."

 

 

"Of course you didn't. I don't go around wearing a button saying, _I lost dozens of friends. Ask me how!_ I'm telling you because I want you to know I'm serious. _This_ is serious. If you want to come to terms with the whole radioactive spider bite thing, that's fine. But come to us. Our motives are a helluva lot less ulterior."

 

 

"Yeah," Connor says. "Yeah, okay."

 

 

Xander leans back in the booth, as if releasing tension he hadn't even realized he carried.

 

 

Connor looks at his watch. "Shit. I really do have to get home and study."

 

 

Xander nods. "I'll take you. Spike--"

 

 

Spike rises, shaking a cigarette out of the pack. "Meet you back at the presidential."

 

 

***

 

 

Something about the boy puts Xander in a mood. He guesses the reasons are complex. For Spike, it's the cheerful stupidity he affects (god help him if it's real). Hard to believe he grew up in a hell dimension fighting for every scrap of food, not to be a light meal himself for something really nasty. Hard to imagine, but Lorne swears it's true. Lorne fills them in on more of the story while they wait for Xander.

 

 

"All tucked in for the night," Xander says as he walks in. A light rain has made diamonds sparkle in his hair, and Spike wonders if the deluge is finally making its way north -- if perhaps they've brought it with them. The thought is pushed aside by the remembered image of Xander standing in the Seraphim courtyard, arms and face raised to the downpour. Spike's ruddy poet is coming to the surface, almost as stubborn and hard to dispel as his demon.

 

 

"Have you convinced him to keep Lindsey at a distance?" Wes asks.

 

 

"For now," Xander says. "I think that's the best we can hope for." He puts on a young, excited voice. "Because it's all so keen!"

 

 

"Weren't you the same when this was all new to you?"

 

 

"No," Xander says flatly. "Because I knew the difference between 'Oh, cool, danger!' and 'Oh, shit, this will kill me.' Because my best friend was murdered and turned into--" He crashes to a halt, staring at the floor. Not glancing at Spike, but the effort it takes to avoid it is palpable.

 

 

"You can say it," Spike says quietly.

 

 

"Into a parody. Into a soulless monster who thought he was the new, improved Jesse. I _never_ approached this purely as an adventure, but especially not after that."

 

_Soulless monster._ Even in his distress, Xander takes care to draw a line between Spike and the thing that he hates.

 

 

Xander cradles his arm, unconsciously working his thumb at the muscle. "So what's the arrangement? I could stand to turn in."

 

 

"We haven't settled that yet," Wes says.

 

 

"Why don't you and Lorne take the room with the two beds," Spike suggests. "Xander an' I have been sharing a room already. We can handle a king-size bed for one night."

 

 

"Xander?"

 

 

"Sure, I don't care." Spike would've preferred that to sound a little less unfiltered truth and a bit more like Xander was playing along with Spike's ruse. "See you in the morning."

 

 

Spike says he supposes he'll turn in too, and follows Xander into their designated room. "Jacuzzi's all ours, mate."

 

 

"I'm too tired." He tosses his kit onto a chair. The hotel staff had brought up both their bags when they'd gotten the suite ready.

 

 

Spike tells him again, because he'd managed to deflect the entire message when Spike had said it before. "You know what you did tonight. Stepped up an' showed yourself a leader. Accepted yourself as an equal of a Watcher, a man who raises book learning to a fetish."

 

 

"Would you just stop that?"

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"All this ... encouraging. It makes me feel like ... like an invalid or something." Xander stops in the midst of unbuttoning his shirt, casting a sharp glance his way. "Speaking of fetishes. Is this what gets you off?"

 

 

"Got no idea what you're on about."

 

 

"Crazy people. Drusilla. Me."

 

 

Spike blinks in disbelief.

 

 

"It's a helluva kink," Xander says.

 

 

"Christ, you're thick!" Spike grabs up his jacket, which he'd just shed. "Christ! I'm going out for some air. Give me the soddin' keys."

 

 

Xander pulls them out of his pocket but doesn't offer them up.

 

 

Spike snatches them from his hand and stalks to the door. "Don't bother waiting up."

 

 

***

 

 

Some ancient impulse sends Spike back to the bar's parking lot to lounge (lurk), leaning against the Viper and chain smoking, watching the youths come and go. Mostly go, at this hour. He mentally calculates how long it would take him to drain and drop each of them, and the answer is always _Not long_. Like Connor, smooth-faced and unsuspecting, nearly every one of them. A few even approach to ask if he's selling.

 

 

Even imaginary lurking gets boring when it's this easy. After he goes through most of what's left of a pack, Spike shoves off and finds himself lurking for real outside Lindsey McDonald's hotel. The light's still on in his room, and every now and then Spike sees a shadow cross the filmy curtains. Between the studying, partying, lurking and whatever it is McDonald's doing, there's not a lot of sleeping going on in this town.

 

 

What McDonald's doing, it turns out, is leaving. Just as Spike's halfway through his last cigarette, the door under the garish neon sign swings open and Connor's would-be mentor emerges, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

 

 

"Well, if it isn't the Illustrated Man," Spike says.

 

 

"Spike." McDonald casts a glance back at the dingy hotel. "Not as auspicious as you'd expect, a meeting of two of Angel's enemies."

 

 

"Me? I haven't an enemy in the world. 'Course, I can always make exceptions for the right arrogant prick."

 

 

"Hey, I'm just trying to get by. I wouldn't harm a living soul. So how's the corporeal life treating you these days? I'd say it's agreeing with you."

 

 

Spike's in the middle of an action he performs without thinking hundreds of times a day, raising his hand to his lips to draw smoke into his lungs. The fag tumbles from his hand, showering red sparks on the filthy sidewalk.

 

 

"Damn," McDonald says cheerfully. "Didn't I send a card with that package? I always forget that part. Now that I think of it, I probably forgot with that little present I sent Angel before. Probably why he didn't thank me. It was a little gaudy, that pendant, but it added something to an ensemble, I thought."

 

 

Spike stands there stupidly, hand still hovering by his face. "That was you brought me back?" He shakes his head. "That's a load of shite."

 

 

"I guess it was a little anticlimactic, from your point of view. Anybody's, really. You were my Plan A, but you disappeared from Wolfram &amp; Hart before I could get things rolling. I didn't have a lot of time to fool around, so I went straight to Plan B. Funny how things work out. This has potential for so much more amusement value than my original idea--"

 

 

Spike finally finds something to do with his hand. He hauls back and smashes his fist into McDonald's face, sending him staggering back into the brick wall. He'd put a lot of thought into who or what had brought him back, and why, especially when he was literally haunting the corridors of Wolfram &amp; Hart. He'd wavered between believing he'd been sent back to redeem himself, or as punishment. But this -- to think he'd been wrenched back to earth by an asshole like this, to be a pawn in some tired revenge drama--

 

 

McDonald blinks his watering eyes, touching two fingers to the flow of blood from his nose. He inspects the smear of red on his fingertips and offers a smirk.

 

 

Spike sets about wiping the stupid grin off McDonald's face, a surge of fierce joy racing through muscle, blood and bone as he punches and kicks. As he walks away from the bleeding man near the hotel's back entrance and slings the duffel into the Viper, Spike reflects that this is the difference between him and Harris.

 

 

There's nothing about this beating that Spike doesn't find completely satisfying.

 

 

***

 

 

He lets himself in the suite and knocks on the door of the room Wes and Lorne are sharing. It's a disgruntled Lorne who yanks the door open. "There is no 'I' in 'wee small hours.' Admittedly, there's a 'we,' but I resigned from that club."

 

 

"S'all right, it's Wes I want."

 

 

"You can have him. He smacks his lips in his sleep." He rouses Wes, who doesn't look any happier about the hour than Lorne did.

 

 

He gusts a sigh. "What is it, Spike?"

 

 

Spike hoists the duffel. "Happened on some belongings of our walking wall of flash art. Thought you might want to check it over for potential magical objects. He seems to have a fondness for 'em."

 

 

Wes shoves his glasses up his nose. "And how did you 'happen on' it?"

 

 

"Luck and pluck. Might be running low on the luck part, so I'm thinking I'll head back to the city tonight. If Harris decides to sleep in, you'll take him back in the limo, yeah?"

 

 

"Of course. But Spike--"

 

 

"McDonald won't be looking for it immediately, but I wouldn't be keeping it for the long haul."

 

 

Spike leaves Wes to his search, letting himself into the other bedroom. The king bed looks like a bird's nest kicked apart by some bully. Xander shoves himself to a sitting position, blinking in the light from the doorway.   
"Restless night?"

 

 

Xander gropes for the bedside lamp. "What the hell happened to you?"

 

 

"Got into a spirited discussion, is all. I'm taking the Viper down south. Want to come, or ride back with the others in the morning?"

 

 

"Anyone we know? The conversation. Or just a lively chat with a passing stranger?"

 

 

"Ran into our friend Lindsey. You know how he's always begging' for meaningful talk."

 

 

"Yeah, he must lead a very isolated life. Your hand is bleeding."

 

 

Spike doesn't bother giving it a glance. "It'll stop."

 

 

"Did you know the human mouth is one of the dirtiest things around? And that punching someone in the mouth is usually a first-class ticket to a really serious infection?"

 

 

"Vampire, remember?"

 

 

"I don't care. You should clean it." Xander throws back the covers and stumbles toward the loo in his Stanford sweatpants. "C'mere."

 

 

"Actually, making my getaway here."

 

 

"You can make it in a minute. I'll even come with." He washes his hands, then soaps up a cloth. "Give me your hand."

 

 

Spike submits to his attentions. The cuts on his hand are worse than he'd realized. Not that it matters medically, but it's pleasant having Xander fuss over him a bit.

 

 

"This is why," Xander says, "when I have spirited discussions, I like to go for the knee to the nuts." He can crack a joke about it now, but Spike notices he's careful to keep his head bent to his task, his face hidden by the long hair. "So did your chat produce anything interesting and new?"

 

 

"Yeah." There's something in his tone, apparently, that makes Xander look up abruptly. "Not going into it now. The getaway, remember?"

 

 

"Sure." Xander rinses off the hand, dries it carefully with a fresh towel. "Maybe the desk can have someone bring bandages."

 

 

"This is fine. More'n I'd ever do." Though a part of him is tempted, just for the heat of Xander's body so close to his, for a moment so much less complicated than what had passed between them earlier tonight.

 

 

Xander clearly feels this same electricity. He looks up from Spike's hand but doesn't let go. Spike can feel the racing of his pulse, the stutter of his heartbeat as he seizes Spike by the scruff of his neck and draws him close for a kiss. The heat of his mouth and hands is intoxicating, and Spike gives himself up to it.

 

 

"Spike, did you--" Wes's voice skids to a halt as he appears at the open bedroom door. "Oh. Oh. Forgive me, I--"

 

 

"Not a problem," Spike lies. "You need something?"

 

 

"I was just wondering if you'd 'happened to' remove anything from Lindsey's duffel before you passed it on. I found evidence of a rather nasty protective spell. We won't want to be hanging onto this any longer than necessary."

 

 

Spike heaves a mighty sigh and digs in his pocket for the money clip he'd happened to find. "We aren't just giving everything back to him. 'Sorry for the confusion, sir, I believe this belongs to you.'"

 

 

"Fortunately, we don't have to do that. I have a counterspell that will work if we destroy the items in question."

 

 

"But the money, it's not really _his_, is it. I mean, bills pass through dozens of hands, maybe hundreds. It's not like the clip."

 

 

"Nice try, Spike." Wes holds his hand out and Spike passes it over. "And by the way, those aren't even his initials. But still, it all has to go."

 

 

"Any other _objets de mojo_?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Some, yes. I've photographed them so I can research them later. I don't want any of these things in our hands any longer than necessary."

 

 

"Need any help with that? Petrol and a match, a heave into a nearby body of water?"

 

 

"Thanks, no. The spell will take care of that."

 

 

Spike nods. "Then I reckon I'll be getting on the road. Xander?"

 

 

"Yeah," he says. "Two minutes." He steps back into the loo and shuts the door.

 

 

Wes stares at the closed door for a moment, at a loss for words. "All right then," he says, then he rouses himself and goes.

 

 

***

 

 

As Spike heads for the Viper, he reaches for his smokes, but stops the second he lays his hand on the pack. The movement reminds him of the cigarette that fell from his fingers as McDonald told him the truth about his resurrection, and the suddenly metallic tang of the smoke.

 

 

Though neither of them speaks for the first fifty miles, it feels like Spike's silence this time, not Xander's.

 

 

Xander, in fact, is the one who breaks it. "We're not fleeing the scene of a murder, are we?"

 

 

"Vitals signs were plenty strong when I left off," he answers.

 

 

"That's a comfort. Handy talent to have. But why bother quitting? You're the one who thinks it'd be doing the world a favor."

 

 

"And you don't? You're the one with the entrails."

 

 

Xander goes silent at that.

 

 

"It's a long way back to recall, but I dimly remember being human didn't stop me from feeling certain people would improve the world by their leaving it." Some of those, in fact, were his first targets when Dru remade him. Preying on the predators, toying with them like a cat -- it had been satisfying. "I guess it's having a soul that stops most people from acting on the notion."

 

 

"You're one of those it matters to."

 

 

"Went looking for it, didn't I?" Xander doesn't answer, and Spike says, "Why don't you have a bit of a kip? It's a long drive."

 

 

"Kip?"

 

 

"Sleep a bit. You could use it."

 

 

"Could use a lot of things. What'd he say?"

 

 

"Who?"

 

 

"Lindsey, asshole. Something came out of your friendly little chat. I don't think I've seen anyone rattle you like that, except maybe Buffy. You don't have a thing for him, do you? I guess he'd have a certain appeal, if you like his type."

 

 

Spike scowls. "You're dead funny, you are."

 

 

"Beats being dead."

 

 

"He's just a blowhard."

 

 

Xander waits, but Spike's said all he's got to say on the subject. "Sure," he says once he gets the drift. "Protect me from the bad stuff. It's not like I have anything to contribute, being this year's pet lunatic and all."

 

 

"Christ."

 

 

"No, you're right. I'm much too fragile. I'll just be over here, having a kipper."

 

 

Spike heaves a sigh. "You saw that bauble Angel brought Buffy, back before the battle with the First."

 

 

"The one that fried you like an ant on the sidewalk?"

 

 

"Thanks for the reminder. Yeah, that. Somehow I was bound up inside it, once Sunnydale was destroyed. Not that I knew I was there -- I'd just ended. Mysterious package shows up at Wolfram &amp; Hart for Angel, and when he opens it, there's the bling, and out I came, on fire just as I was when it swallowed me up, and then not."

 

 

"Sea Monkeys. Just add water."

 

 

Sometimes Harris does make as much sense as Dru. "Except I was just a ghost."

 

 

"So what does this have to do with ol' Born-with-two?"

 

 

"He's the one who sent the amulet to Angel. It's him who brought me back."

 

 

Xander mulls that over. "That's what rattles you. That there's no grand purpose in your coming back, that it's this punk-ass lawyer who engineered the entire thing."

 

 

"Yeah, that's it, I s'pose."

 

 

"You know who that reminds me of? Angel."

 

 

"Have I ever mentioned how much I hate you?"

 

 

Xander grins. "You might've once or twice. You've slipped recently. Anyway. You weren't around when all this happened. Buffy sent Angel -- Angelus -- I'm fuzzy on exactly how this all timed out -- to hell when he awoke that Acathla demon. Then, boom, a few months later, he's back, he's Angel, or eventually he is. Later Buffy told me he was kind of feral at first. So a while after that, he finds out it's the First Evil who brought him back, or so it claimed. He went through this same revulsion. Like getting a gift that turns out to be some horrible trick. He almost went out sunning himself."

 

 

Spike casts a sharp glance toward Xander.

 

 

"It's true. We had some freakish bad weather, or he'd have been dust in the wind years ago. But if you think about it, we've all got the same existential shit going on. What the fuck put _me_ on the earth? The old man having a few too many and forgetting to use protection? What makes my existence inherently more valuable than yours, just because that little prick brought you back? You think there's some kind of grand purpose in any of this?"

 

 

Spike feels a twinge of regret that Xander doesn't think so. And a large dose of surprise that he feels this way. It's as if William has awakened in him after his long sleep, as if his upbringing suddenly matters again -- _of course there's a purpose. A plan._

 

 

He wonders what's brought William -- or the memory of him, probably no longer accurate -- so close to the surface. Is it the soul? Or has Xander somehow brought this out in him? He finds it strange, how often he's mentioned William and his upbringing these last few days.

 

 

"What about the kid?" Xander asks.

 

 

"Kid?"

 

 

"Connor. By everything we've ever known, he shouldn't even exist. The fact that he does -- does that speak for grand purpose, or does it just mean something evil has set him up to be its pawn? Besides Lindsey, I mean. Hell, maybe Lindsey's its pawn, too."

 

 

"So you don't believe good has a grand purpose, but you do think evil does."

 

 

Xander rubs his brow. "Let's just say I have a lot more experience with the grand design of evil things. And the pawniness is maybe a little too fresh in my mind."

 

 

"What about the visions?"

 

 

"Oh, what about 'em?" Xander says irritably. "Jesus. What was so bad about being a pizza delivery guy? Why didn't I just live my pizza delivering life and come home and watch tv and have sex with Anya and let that make me happy? Now I'm portent delivery guy, and I'm starting to remember that people are always happy to see the pizza delivery guy. Even the guy who robbed me that one time was glad to see me. Your portent delivery guy, not so popular. Purpose, I'm starting to think, is vastly overrated."

 

 

"I'm getting whiplash, following all this."

 

 

"Yeah, I know. It's why I generally stay out of the philosophizing. My opinion changes every five seconds." He shifts in his seat, curling toward the window. "Let me know if you want me to take the wheel. I'm gonna grab a few minutes of sleep."

 

 

***

 

 

With everything that's gone on the past couple of days, Spike had forgotten to wonder about the L.A. weather. As the Viper nears the city limits, the sky begins to spit rain, and by the time they pull up to the Home of Seraphim, the rain is hissing down as if it had never stopped.

 

 

When they let themselves into the living room, dripping onto the threadbare carpet, they find Faith asleep in front of Turner Classic Movies, a flattened popcorn bag and empty ice cream bowl next to her on the floor. Victorian gentlemen are flickering in black and white.

 

 

Xander, still half asleep, murmurs, "You coming up?"

 

 

"I'm a bit peckish. Thought I'd have a mug first. You go on, pet."

 

 

Even though he's swaying on his feet, Xander smiles. "'Pet.'" He catches Spike's arm, reels him in for a sleepy kiss. It's more chaste than hungry, sweet, almost domestic. More than the fevered kisses before sex, it seems a promise of more.

 

 

He pushes back an streaming lock of Xander's hair. "Upstairs with you," and Xander obediently stumbles up to his room. Spike watches him go, and when he turns back and prepares to pick his way through the room toward the kitchen, he finds Faith has pushed herself upright.

 

 

"Well," she says. "Romance blossoms in the house of rogue watchers, slayers and vampires. Must be all the watering."

 

 

"Feeling left out, are you, love?"

 

 

She smirks, but only asks, "Wes and Lorne on their way?"

 

 

"In the morning."

 

 

"How'd it go?"

 

 

"Found out why Lindsey's interested in the kid, didn't we? He's Angel's son."

 

 

Faith leans forward. "_What?_"

 

 

"'S'what we all thought. But it's true. Lorne heard Connor sing, and everything came back to him. He said everyone knew this, but a spell had erased him from their memories, had changed all Connor's, too. So we were right about McDonald's scheme being about Angel."

 

 

"Holy shit. That's just hard to get my mind around. You think this thing fucked with my memory too? I was with Angel right before Sunnydale ended. Angelus came back, and Wes decided I was the woman to stuff him back in his cage." She scowls. "I don't much like the idea, something rearranging my head, fucking with my past."

 

 

"Not even the bad?"

 

 

"Not even. That belongs to me. Not much else that does."

 

 

"Maybe Lorne can tell you. Seems like he got it all back, hearing the boy sing."

 

 

"Don't want somebody _telling_ me. I want to _know_."

 

 

Spike nods, then moves off to the kitchen to warm up some blood. As he passes back through, mug cradled in his hands, Faith says, "It's good, seeing you two together. He gets more like himself all the time."

 

 

"He's strong, is all."

 

 

"I know he is, but ... it looked for a while like she'd broken him."

 

 

"Yeah. Now we just make sure the visions don't finish the job."

 

 

He climbs the stairs toward Xander's room.

 

 

***

 

 

Spike opens the door a crack to say goodnight, but Xander's already tumbled onto the bed, asleep, his shoes still laced. Spike considers for a moment, then steps inside to pick carefully at the laces.

 

 

Purpose. Xander had nailed that, no question. Spike hates the idea of being a pawn to a weasel like McDonald. Xander, much as he hates it too, at least had a goddess shoving him around on the chess board. Makes things a mite easier to take.

 

 

He used to roll his eyes at Angelus' grand schemes to cut a swath through history, his plan to end the world, but the truth is, Spike longs to matter. Silly sod for thinking he could, but there you have it.

 

 

He finally unknots one of the laces, eases off a shoe and places it on the floor.

 

 

Xander peels an eye open. "Cha doin'?"

 

 

"Quiet now. Go back to sleep."

 

 

"Always knew you were a toe-sucking perv."

 

 

"Don't knock it, mate." He massages his thumb into the ball of Xander's foot and produces a moan. He releases it and begins working at the other shoelace. "You tie your shoes like a four-year-old."

 

 

"Keeps the chupacabras from getting me."

 

 

"Sleep. Be morning soon, and I reckon there'll be another boring powwow when the others get here."

 

 

In answer, Xander slides his bare foot up Spikes leg, nestling it in his crotch. "There's matters we should take care of before they come. Or maybe that's coming we should do before they take care of matters. Something." He flutters his toes in a way that causes Spike to suck in a breath. "I like it when you do that. C'mon up here."

 

 

Spike tugs off the other shoe, drops it beside its mate. "Prefer staying down here.' He works his thumbs into the sole of Xander's foot until he pulls another moan from him. Then he raises the foot and takes his great toe into his mouth.

 

 

"_Spike._ Aw, jeez no. That's just--" He gasps as Spike performs some fancy tongue action.

 

 

"Dirty?" Spike murmurs. "Only if you're doing it right."

 

 

"C'mon," Xander whines. "I mean it."

 

 

Means what? He hasn't said _stop_. Spike steps up his efforts until Xander forgets how to use words entirely. Fluttering his fingers over the ankle bone, sucking and nipping at the toes.

 

 

Xander bunches the bedcovers in his hands, his breath sawing harshly. "Stop," he finally rasps, but he's already a heartbeat from tumbling over the edge, and in the next breath he falls.

 

 

***

 

 

***

 

 

Spike lowers Xander's leg to the coverlet, but leaves his hand on his shin, savoring the little tremors still shuddering through it.

 

 

"That's dirty pool," Xander mutters.

 

 

Spike trails his hand up toward Xander's groin. "It's all erotic, innit. All you need is a lover who knows what he's about."

 

 

Xander reaches for his own belt buckle, but Spike halts his hands. "That's the easy way, yeah?" He climbs onto the bed, unbidden, and straddles Xander's hips, then lifts one of Xander's hands to his lips. Spike nips at the pad of his thumb, swirls his tongue around a callus.

 

 

"_Cut it out._" He jerks his hand away.

 

 

His vehemence startles Spike. "Why?"

 

 

"They're nasty."

 

 

"Nasty?" Spike echoes stupidly.

 

 

"My hands."

 

 

"Why, because they're a laborer's hands?" He realizes how that sounds. "Sorry. That's how we'd have said it in my time."

 

 

Xander doesn't seem to have taken offense. "They're rough and split and callused, yeah."

 

 

"No shame in that." He retrieves Xander's hand and begins massaging the mound at the base of his thumb, tracing small circles. "My hands were soft as a baby's arse, when I was livin'. Was a clerk in an office."

 

 

"A clark?" His attention has lasered in on Spike, which wasn't what he'd intended.

 

 

Spike repeats the word, this time with the American pronunciation. "Record keeping, figuring an' the like." The more he talks of his life, he notices, the more pronounced his assumed accent. "Never touched hands like these." He traces Xander's calluses with his tongue until Xander's breath deepens, interrupted by little stutters and gasps and noises "Must be lovely to wank with, these hands," Spike murmurs. "Like the French letters with the ribbing." He takes Xander's hand in both his own, caressing the calluses now with both thumbs, like working the video games, but with infinitely lighter strokes. Xander writhes beneath him. "That's right, pet. Let me show you, yeah? They're nothing to be ashamed of. Let me show you..." He lowers his mouth to the fine web of skin between Xander's thumb and forefinger, sucking until his blood throbs with the same rhythm and he cries out harshly, bucking beneath Spike's weight.

 

 

"Good, yeah?"

 

 

"Yeah," he pants. His heart pounds, making Spike wish there were an answering rhythm within his own chest. "Yeah." Xander hoists himself up on an elbow, fumbles at his belt. "I should--"

 

 

"Let me, pet."

 

 

Xander sinks back onto the bed, letting his hand fall away. Spike works at his trousers and pants, sliding them down over his fading erection and tugging them off. He strokes the tan line at Xander's neckline and arms, dark skin next to light, the evidence of Africa still marked on his skin.

 

 

"You did well, didn't you. Tried something new. Can have whatever you like now."

 

 

"You," Xander says dreamily. "Your turn now." His eyes closed, he's drifting into some sated, trancy state Spike's never seen him in before.

 

 

"I'm just fine, pet. Whatever you'd like."

 

 

Xander's in no shape to suggest anything, much less initiate it.

 

 

"Would you like me to fuck you, then?" Spike croons. "Nothing you need to do, just lie an' be dreamy."

 

 

"Like that, yeah."

 

 

Spike takes him by his legs, drawing him toward the foot of the bed, which draws a gasp from him, and signs of renewed arousal.

 

 

"Want to watch you," Spike murmurs. He finds the lube and prepares them both, as Xander sinks deeper into his dreamy state. He lifts Xander's legs, shouldering into them, raising his hips just off the mattress.

 

 

"I've missed you," Xander whispers, and then a sob escapes him. He shifts to open himself to Spike, rocking and babbling nonsense that is nevertheless beautiful. Like some song he learned in Africa, maybe.

 

 

"Slow down, Xander. It's not a race."

 

 

At the sound of his name, Xander gives his head a hard shake. He babbles more nonsense, or maybe the same as before.

 

 

"Easy, love. That's right."

 

 

Xander settles back into his dreamy ecstasy, punctuated by gasps and sighs and inarticulate little sounds. At last he arches beneath his lover, crying out as Spike gazes at his rapture.

 

 

Spike closes his own eyes as he comes, missing the exact heartbeat when everything changes.

 

 

"No," Xander says in a low voice. He scrambles away from Spike, toward the headboard. "No no no no."

 

 

Spike struggles to form a coherent thought, which isn't so easy considering he was caught mid-ejaculation. He shakes his head to clear it. "What is it, Xander? A vision?"

 

 

"Can't have that, can't want it, it's gone all gone, and that's good, it has to be."

 

 

Spike reaches out for him, but Xander bats his arm away.

 

 

"I thought -- I can't. Can't go there anymore." His fingernails rake at the skin of his right forearm, until pearls of blood well up.

 

 

"Xander. You're hurtin' yourself." He reaches out again, but Xander shoves him back against the windowsill, then bolts out into the hallway and thunders down the stairs.

 

 

***

 

 

"Bugger," he mutters, and dashes out after Xander.

 

 

He finds Faith seated on the couch with a half-full popcorn bag in her lap, frozen in the act of raising a handful to her mouth as she stares after Xander. The smell of fake butter and burned kernels makes Spike's stomach twist.

 

 

"Headed out back?"

 

 

"Yeah. What--?" She bites off the question as she sees her second naked male of the night. A few fluffy popcorn bits fall onto her lap, unnoticed.

 

 

"He would go off his nut when the watcher's not here."

 

 

She gets to her feet, brushes the white flecks from her clothes. "Let me go to him," she says.

 

 

"You?"

 

 

Faith shrugs. "Couldn't hurt, could it?"

 

 

"Can't say I did him any good. Have at it." He moves to the window as she follows Xander outside, though. He'll listen in, go out if it seems needed.

 

 

He expected to see Xander standing in the rain as he had before, face tilted up, arms outstretched to the sky. But he doesn't spot Xander until Faith steps into the downpour and addresses herself to him. Xander's made himself as small as possible, crouched by the cracked and blackened birdbath, his right arm cradled in the left.

 

 

"Xander," Faith says softly. "I'm not one to look my naked gift horses and all, but are you okay?"

 

 

"Not Mombasa," he says.

 

 

"I'm with you there. Doesn't seem much like L.A., either." She takes a step closer. "So I'm thinking something spooked you. Want to talk about it?"

 

 

"I was back there. With her. Thought I was better, thought she left--"

 

 

"You're hella better," Faith says. She's more of an optimist than Spike had given her credit for. "You had a flashback."

 

 

"I wanted her. I brought her." He's still refusing to look at her.

 

 

"No." She crouches with him. "Something triggered a memory, that's all. There's nobody here but Spike. Something you two did triggered you. That's all it is."

 

 

"She took me."

 

 

"I know. I saw it in a dream."

 

 

"Inside me."

 

 

"I remember." Spike hadn't known Faith's voice could be so gentle, even with its smoky little rasp. "A memory kicked up. Doesn't mean you're back where you were. Doesn't taint what you've got now. Think of it as a brain fart, and move on."

 

 

He uncurls a little, loosening his grip on his right arm, extending it toward Faith.

 

 

She clasps his hand.

 

 

"You're all wet now," he says.

 

 

"I've kinda got a thing about a good cleansing rain," she says. "Works its way into the soul, to my way of thinking." She lays her hand on his head and they stay there, unmoving in the hissing rain.

 

 

Spike pads upstairs to have a quick washup and pull on his jeans, then collects some towels and blankets for their return to the house.

 

 

***

 

 

By the time Spike sets the first aid kit next to the towels and blankets, they haven't yet returned, but the way they stand in the depressing little courtyard gives him cause to hope.

 

 

Another few moments and they come inside. Spike hands a pair of towels to Faith, then moves to Xander, wrapping a big bath sheet around him. "You all right, pet?"

 

 

Xander steps toward him, lets himself be enfolded in Spike's arms. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. I freaked, but it wasn't about you."

 

 

"Hush now, it's all right, don't give it a second thought. It's all good."

 

 

Xander clings to him, but Spike can feel him returning to himself even as he holds on.

 

 

"Let's get you dry," Spike finally says, "have a look at that arm."

 

 

The scratches have stopped bleeding. Spike wipes a little antiseptic on them, and gets Xander dried off and wrapped in a blanket. "Go sleep now."

 

 

Xander nods. "Are you coming up?"

 

 

"In a few minutes. Shall I come to your room, or do you want some time to yourself?"

 

 

There's no hesitation. "My room." He heads for the stairs, reaching out and touching Faith's elbow as he passes her.

 

 

She catches his hand, letting it slip through hers as he moves on by.

 

 

"Thanks for your help," Spike says once he's heard the door close behind Xander upstairs.

 

 

"What happened to your voice?" She's finished with the towel, but her jeans and t-shirt are still plastered to her.

 

 

"My voice?"

 

 

"I mean the way you talk. You sounded like somebody else just now."

 

 

Spike merely shrugs. "How'd you suss that out so quick? How to help him?"

 

 

Faith grins. "I ain't deaf, and I sure as hell ain't dumb. You two were having a wicked good time -- too good for Miss Dry Spell of 2004 here to have to listen to." She grows more serious. "Then suddenly he freaks out, motors through here sounding as crazy as he did weeks ago. I figured something triggered him. Some muscle memory. See a lot of that, in the California State Finishing School for Girls."

 

 

Spike nods. "Makes sense."

 

 

"First time you penetrated him?" It's her sober air and clinical phrasing that surprises him, even more than the question.

 

 

"No."

 

 

"The position, then. Face to face, right? Figured on one or the other. She did that. When she made him her priest. I saw that in a slayer dream."

 

 

"Forced him?"

 

 

"He gave her his will, is how he said it just now. He gave himself, but she'd already overwhelmed him, pushed everything out of his head that wasn't her. With you he slid into a state that made him think he'd gone back."

 

 

"I took his will," he murmurs. Pushed him to do things he hadn't really wanted.

 

 

Faith shakes her head emphatically, sprinkling him with droplets of rain. "He gave you his trust. He sees the difference, so don't you lose sight of it. This might be a good thing, in the long run."

 

 

"Right, yeah, can see that," he says. "Sleep with me and go right off your nut, I can see how well that'll work out."

 

 

"He knows now he can let go and still be safe, even if he gets scared, even if he freaks." She nods toward the stairs. "Be a good idea to go up now, reinforce that a little."

 

 

Much as it goes against his grain to listen to common sense, he nods. "Thanks, love. For the advice. For what you did out there."

 

 

"Least I can do. Now get the fuck upstairs. And don't come down again, unless you're good with catching me in the act."

 

 

Spike gives her a grin and heads back upstairs, to Xander.

 

 

***

 

 

When he gets upstairs, Xander's room is empty, door still wide open, in the same disarray they'd left it in. Spike feels a brief stab of worry until he hears the rush of water in the bog.

 

_You're hella better._ He wishes his conviction was as solid as Faith's.

 

 

The door to the loo opens with some violence, warped as it is by the humidity in the air. "I'm taking it personally that I haven't been able to fix that," Xander says.

 

 

"Bloke needs some challenge in life so he doesn't get soft," Spike says.

 

 

"That explains the boredom I was beginning to feel. Things have just been going too smoothly." He lingers in the hallway, seemingly in no hurry to retreat to his room.

 

 

Spike cocks an eyebrow. "If you've changed your--"

 

 

"No no. I just wondered-- Could we be in your room tonight? I don't want to breathe that in. All that panic."

 

 

"'Course, pet. You don't need to ask." He's a touch relieved himself; the room had been thick with fear. Spike pushes his door open. "I'd say welcome to my little home, but you're the one who built it."

 

 

"Yeah, but it's yours now." Xander steps inside, looks around. "It's a little more monkish than your usual."

 

 

"I prefer Faith's word. Spartan."

 

 

Xander cracks a grin. It still looks like a shadow of a normal Harris grin, but it's encouraging. "Yeah. Me too, I guess."

 

 

"Everything I had before -- Was stolen, wannit? Haven't had much time for thieving since I got back." Not as strong an inclination, either, except where McDonald was concerned.

 

 

The bed is narrow, but they get settled comfortably, Xander nestled in Spike's arms. Handy thing about being a vampire, that. No circulation to cut off, so Spike's fine for as long as Xander feels like staying.

 

 

They talk quietly about trivial things as Spike absently strokes Xander's hair. The rain has made it soft as a child's hair, sweet smelling without reeking of shampoo. Xander drifts off in the middle of talking about his recent craving for Cuban food.

 

 

Spike winds a lock of Xander's hair around his finger, then lets it loose. Perhaps he doesn't need to avert an apocalypse or change history to matter. Perhaps he's meant this time to matter to one person. To give that person something to hold onto when the darkness is on him. (And get it right this time.) Maybe it's nothing as lofty as saving him, maybe Spike's mission is no more exalted than making him laugh now and again, giving him a safe place to natter as he drifts into sleep.

 

 

He decides that's enough.

 

 

***

 

 

Anne arrives with two armloads of groceries late the next morning. She's had a call from Wes, and decided to make a welcome back breakfast for the lot of them. She's a nurturer, is Annie; if it's not street kids she's fattening up, it's stray demon fighters.

 

 

Xander volunteers his help in the kitchen, while Spike steps out back for a smoke. The rain still slashes down, overflowing the birdbath so the water cascades around it like a fountain, its loud, unmelodious splattering obscuring the conversation from within. He resists the urge to go listen. Worst thing he can do right now is hover, treat Xander like an invalid.

 

 

Spike hears a gust of laughter from the kitchen, Anne's floating light and silvery above Xander's, and he relaxes a bit. He lights another smoke -- this one he's actually planning to taste -- and idly considers how William might've described this moment. The rain, the relentlessly ugly back garden with its cracked birdbath, the sound of laughter. Badly, that's certain. The word _turgid_ always springs to mind. But no one's here, no one need ever know, so he toys with a bit of phrasing.

 

_What rhymes with melancholy?_

 

_Jolly._ Spike chuckles. William would've loved that, used it, enjoying the juxtaposition of opposites, thinking he'd discovered something profound.

 

 

"There you are." Xander's arms wrap around him from behind, and Spike leans back into the heat of his body. "Though that makes it sound like there was some doubt, doesn't it? First place I looked, actually. Smoking -- more reliable than an ankle bracelet." He plants a kiss on Spike's shoulder, then releases him. "Wes and Lorne are a few blocks away. Breakfast'll be ready a few minutes later. If you feel like joining us."

 

 

Spike gives the cigarette a mighty flick, and it arcs into the birdbath, extinguishing with a wet sizzle, then turning gray. He turns away from the dank little courtyard. "Wouldn't miss it."

 

 

***

 

 

If Annie is startled to have a green-skinned demon joining them for breakfast, she hides it well.

 

 

"Anne," Wes says, "I don't believe you've met Lorne. Lorne, this is--"

 

 

"Anne Steele," Lorne finishes. He lifts her hand to his lips, bestowing a courtly kiss. "I never forget a face, at least not one as lovely as yours. You were at Wolfram &amp; Hart for a consultation with Angel. I hope your issue's been resolved to your satisfaction."

 

 

She flicks a look at Wes, full of humor and affection. "Absolutely."

 

 

"Faith! C'mere, doll." Lorne spreads his arms and Faith goes all dimply and lets herself be enfolded.

 

 

Xander blinks in surprise.

 

 

"Keeping out of trouble, peaches?" Lorne asks as he releases her.

 

 

"No more'n I have to. You?"

 

 

"Getting along. Collecting enough Hollywood dirt to start my own magazine."

 

 

"Anne's made a big breakfast," Xander says. "Why don't we all get started before it gets cold. We can catch up while we're eating."

 

 

Everyone's washed their hands and settled in at the table by the time Xander and Anne finish bringing out plates loaded with food. "There's plenty more in the kitchen," Anne says. "I didn't have enough platters and bowls to do the 'pass it around' thing."

 

 

"I didn't even know I had enough dishes to do this," Wes says.

 

 

"You didn't. That's what Target is for. Spike, Xander said you probably wouldn't eat? Can I warm a mug for you?"

 

 

"Thought I'd have a splash of coffee first," he says. Such a domestic scene. He'd hate to ruin it, sitting among the others with a blood mustache.

 

 

The first few moments are taken with requests to pass the salt and exclamations over the food, which quiets down as the serious eating begins. Spike steals a bit of bacon from Xander's plate, then a piece of toast.

 

 

Wes looks round the table and smiles. "I just remembered something. How I came to join Angel Investigations. It wasn't a formal invitation, actually, but they asked if I'd like to stay to breakfast. We'd ended up working the same case, you see; I was working solo at the time. The morning after everything was resolved, Angel made breakfast -- it was his habit in those days after a case -- and they asked me to stay, and the rest, as they say, is history."

 

 

Wes grows silent then, and his smile fades as it obviously occurs to him that Angel is now running Wolfram &amp; Hart, and Cordelia is dead. He makes a visible effort to cheer himself, and manages to some degree. "Cordelia had just had her first vision. And here we are again, an agency just getting on its feet, with a brand new visionary, celebrating a new beginning. With twice the number Angel Investigations had, I must add."

 

_More mouths to feed_, Spike can't help thinking. _And our only client a bloody college student with the survival instinct of a lemming._

 

 

Anne raises her glass of orange juice. "Here's to new beginnings."

 

 

Glasses are raised and new beginnings toasted, but it seems to Spike there's less enthusiasm in the toast -- even from Wes -- than an attempt to avoid an awkward moment.

 

 

Only Faith seems immune from the melancholy (there's William's word again) that settles over the others. "New beginnings," she says with fervor. "Now. Let's have the update on our case."

 

 

***

 

 

By the end of their recap, Anne looks stunned with all this new information. In the more literal sense, that is, of having been struck by a cudgel. Faith is processing the information slightly better, having had the early bulletin on the "Connor is Angel's son but we all forgot" newsflash.

 

 

"Clearly we gotta have a talk with Angel," Faith says. "I'm nominating myself for the job."

 

 

"You?" Wes blurts. "Why you?"

 

 

"Because I have a different relationship with him than most of you. We all know he can dig in when he feels opposed. I'm gonna set off fewer of those defenses than the rest of you would, I'm thinking. I'm gonna get farther before he shuts down."

 

 

"Why would he shut down?" Anne asks. "Considering his history with Lindsey McDonald, he'll be grateful for the warning, won't he?"

 

 

"Should be," Faith says. "But I'm planning to do more than warn him. This mojo that's made us all forget the kid -- it's fucked up. I want to convince him to undo it."

 

 

"We don't even know that it's Angel's doing," Wes says.

 

 

"You don't think it's like him?" Faith retorts. "God knows I love him, but he has a history of going all Lone Rangery and taking decisions on himself."

 

 

"I have to agree there," Lorne says. "But cupcake, in this case I'm not sure it was the wrong decision. Connor -- well, this is going to sound harsh, but he was like a rabid dog. He was willing to kill Angel, willing to kill a whole lot of innocent people. The way he grew up in that other dimension -- it made him crazy. It made him dangerous. He's not, now. Leave things as they are."

 

 

"Right, he's cured. Doesn't matter he was cured by taking away his mind -- fuck that, by taking away a piece of _mine_. I don't remember being asked -- oh wait, I guess I wouldn't, since my goddamn memory's been shot fulla holes. Doesn't this high-handed shit bother anyone else?"

 

 

"Remind me not to tell her about Dawn," Xander whispers to Spike, which earns him a glare from Faith.

 

 

"Something funny down there?"

 

 

"Absolutely not," Xander says.

 

 

"She has a point," Wes says. "Our history has been altered, and how can we make any decisions that aren't tainted by that?"

 

 

Lorne sighs. "I get that whole Knowledge is Our Most Powerful Weapon thing, Wes, I really do. But I guarantee you, if you reach for this weapon, you'll be the first person it cuts."

 

 

Spike spent enough time hanging about watchers to know how this is going to go.

 

 

Wes doesn't disappoint. "So you propose we ensure our happiness by going through life willingly blinkered."

 

 

"The CinemaScope view isn't necessarily all it's cracked up to be," Lorne says.

 

 

"I suggest we put it to a vote," Wes says. "Let's have a show of hands. All in favor of going after the knowledge that's been hidden from us."

 

 

***

 

 

To no one's surprise, Faith and Wes raise their hands without hesitation. A second later, Xander's hand goes up as well.

 

 

"Wait," says Lorne. "What happened to 'If you destroy this kid's happy illusion, I'm quitting this organization'?"

 

 

Spike's curious about that, too.

 

 

"I know. But I'm looking at it from a different angle now. What if something came along and took all my memories of, I dunno, say Dawn?"

 

 

"I'd say that depends," Lorne says. "Did Dawn ever try to drop her father to the bottom of the ocean? Or blow up a roomful of innocent people?"

 

 

Nearly ended the world, that's all. But that wasn't her fault, and it wasn't her fault Buffy died to save her.

 

 

"Besides," Wes says. "This situation is entirely different. Dawn is herself an illusion, you've said, however convincingly--"

 

 

Xander slams his other hand down on the table, startling everyone. "Dawn. Is. Real. I never said she wasn't, and I never will. And if you know what's good for you, that's the last time I hear you say anything like that."

 

 

"What the fuck is this about, anyway?" Faith demands. "What does Dawn have to do with any of this?"

 

 

"_Nothing_," Xander says. "Just an example. The point is, I love her like my own sister, and the idea that someone could make a unilateral decision to erase her from my life the last eight years--" Xander shoots Spike a look. "You love her too, I know that. Why isn't your hand up?"

 

 

"Because it's not the Bit who's on the line, is it? Knowledge is great, knowledge is good, sure. You remember how bleedin' empowered you and your mates felt after the dancing demon."

 

 

Xander's hand drops several inches, emotions flickering across his face, but then he raises it higher than before.

 

 

Wes looks around the table, letting his gaze linger on Anne. "Is this our final count? Three and three."

 

 

"Status quo wins, then, right?" Lorne prompts. "Since we don't have a compelling vote in favor of changing things."

 

 

Anne finally speaks up. "I thought this was a vote on asking Angel to change things. Those are two entirely different things."

 

 

"You're right," Wesley says. "These are surely powerful magicks that are keeping this illusory world in place. I'm not certain we could counter them ourselves. Angel, on the other hand, is expending energies by keeping the spell going. That's the approach that makes the most sense."

 

 

Lorne sighs. "One more time. I'm the guy who remembers _all_ of this. I'm keeping a lot of this to myself, because I know just how ugly it gets. Listen to Uncle Lorne. Let sleeping hellbeasts lie."

 

 

"It goes against every bit of training I ever had," Wes says.

 

 

"The people who trained you weren't exactly agenda-free," Spike notes.

 

 

"Even setting aside my training, it goes against my every instinct. Against who I am."

 

 

"It's a moot point," Lorne says. "We've cast our votes, and we're--"

 

 

"I haven't," Anne says.

 

 

"But you--"

 

 

"I didn't raise my hand. It didn't mean I was voting the other way. I'm voting now." Her hand goes up, and Faith, Xander and Wes push theirs up into the air once more.

 

 

"Four to two," Wes says unnecessarily.

 

 

***

 

 

"That's settled, then," Faith says. "I'll see Angel, give him the heads-up on Lindsey, get him to undo this Connor mojo -- is that even the kid's real name?"

 

 

"It is," Lorne says. His mood has definitely soured. "Admirable concern with details. It's always good to know the name of the freight train that runs you over."

 

 

She smirks. "You're a ray of sunshine today, Ace. Why don't you step outside, see if you can dry up that monsoon."

 

 

Wes's gloating turns into a bout of throat-clearing. "We haven't yet settled the question of who approaches him."

 

 

"How many goddamn votes are we gonna take around here?"

 

 

"I haven't suggested putting this to a vote," Wes says calmly, which causes Faith's expression to darken. Brave or stupid, Spike's not certain which. "You've nominated yourself to speak for us. Because he owes you, perhaps?"

 

 

"_Owes_ me?" Her brow furrows. "Because of the Orpheus."

 

 

Wes nods.

 

 

"Hadn't even crossed my mind. What I was thinking is, the reactions you might set off. Xander and Angel have the whole oil and water thing going -- actually, make that match and gasoline. Wes, I know you two have some complicated history--"

 

 

"Amen, sister," Lorne mutters.

 

 

Faith continues as if Lorne never spoke. "You don't see eye to eye all the time. We don't want to make him dig in before we even get this on the table. Anne filled me in on her story while you guys were gone; she's never had much fondness for Angel, it's Gunn who's her tie to him. Spike and Lorne aren't on board, so fuck 'em." She flashes dimples. "That leaves me."

 

 

"Because you've only attempted to murder him twice," Wes says tartly.

 

 

"Ancient history. Look, I'll be straight. If there's anybody in this world I worship, it's him. He knows that. I don't know if the message will get through but at least he won't shut me down before I can lay it on him."

 

 

"He'll be disarmed," Wes says.

 

 

"Well, I hope he won't be packing."

 

 

"No, Faith, what I meant was--"

 

 

"Jesus, Wes. I'm not stupid. It's a joke."

 

 

Only this lot can turn agreement into an argument. Wes sputters and stammers an apology, and after a moment Faith lets her feathers settle.

 

 

"There's only one adjustment I'd make to your plan," Wes says once she's placated. "Your visit has a twofold purpose, and we've only discussed the spell. Your other intent is to warn him about Lindsey, and Xander's visions. I believe Xander should be there."

 

 

"_What?_" Faith yelps.

 

 

"What?" Xander echoes. "No fricken way!"

 

 

***

 

 

"What part of 'match and gasoline' didn't you understand?" Faith demands.

 

 

"Things are different now," Wes says. "The visions have been passed to Xander."

 

 

"And why exactly are we rushing to tell Wolfram &amp; Hart that?" Anne asks. "International House of Evil, since 1826?" The girl's starting to sound like a Scooby now.

 

 

"I think I resent that remark," Lorne says. "Crumbcake, Angel _won_. He's changed what Wolfram &amp; Hart means. Wes, you're not saying you left because--"

 

 

"Not at all, Lorne. I have no doubts about Angel's intentions. I missed the agency. Still, we may believe in Angel, in you and Fred and Gunn, but there's the entire staff they inherited, whom we know little about."

 

 

In a room with so many people, it's difficult to pick up the small physical signals that would tell Spike if "I have no doubts" is a lie, but Lorne clearly suspects it too, muttering, "Yeah, let's have you sing that to the tune of 'Melancholy Baby.'"

 

 

"I'm not going," Xander says.

 

 

"You needn't be with Angel the entire time. As Faith pointed out, that could be counterproductive. You could wait in the lobby until she calls for you."

 

 

"You mean the lobby that I've seen full of bodies and -- oh, yeah, _entrails_ \-- _that_ lobby?"

 

 

"We're not certain what you've seen," Wes says. "You've never been to Wolfram &amp; Hart's L.A. office. That's another reason you should go. We should confirm that's truly the location of your vision."

 

 

"No."

 

 

Spike feels the panic rising in Xander, and his effort to push it back.

 

 

"Maybe that's what Angel will need to believe our warning. To see the power this vision has." Wes's voice is gentle but implacable. "He's seen Cordelia in this same state. He understands what this means. And Cordelia--"

 

 

Spike's stayed out of this, but now he puts up a hand. "You start with the bloody WWCD, and we'll both pick up our marbles and leave."

 

 

"If Spike goes, I'll go," Xander says.

 

 

"Right. As I was saying."

 

 

"No, I'm talking about Wolfram &amp; Hart. I'll go, if Spike comes with."

 

 

"Aww, fer crissakes," Faith says. "Why don't we just rent a bus?"

 

 

"If you want Angel in a listening mood," Lorne says, "I can't say Spike's the one to put him there."

 

 

"Don't even plan to see him," Spike says. "I'll have a visit with Fred. In fact, I'll take Xander 'round to meet her, and we won't even wait in the lobby. Faith can give him a call on his cell when he's needed."

 

 

"Well, Faith," Wes says, "does that solve your objections?"

 

 

A glare is their only answer.

 

 

***

 

 

Xander's gone into silent mode for the drive to Wolfram &amp; Hart. He sits in the shotgun seat, chewing at a hangnail, picking at it until it bleeds.

 

 

Spike decides to play oblivious. "You'll like Fred," he tells Xander. "Smart as a whip, she is. If you ever run into anything that _does_ take a rocket scientist, Fred's your girl. Literal truth."

 

 

Faith scowls. "She looks like one of those girls who gets so carried away working that she forgets to eat. Only one thing gets me that busy, and you'll notice I've put on a pound or two these last weeks."

 

 

"Believe you've mentioned."

 

 

"It's a portent," Xander says darkly. "Worse than I ever suspected."

 

_Jesus wept. What now?_ "What, pet?"

 

 

"It must be written somewhere."

 

 

"_What?_" Faith prods.

 

 

"Weeks without a date? Faith? Must be an apocalypse brewing."

 

 

Faith's shoulders relax. "Very fuckin' funny. Just what this operation needs, a standup visionary."

 

 

"I'm here all week. Try the veal." Xander's hand flies up in the air. "_No._ Don't park in their underground garage. Find a lot."

 

 

"What, and walk six blocks? Later for that shit." She doubleparks in front of the Wolfram &amp; Hart building, behind a truck that's unloading a large crate. "Let's hit it."

 

 

Xander's sense of humor wasn't returning, merely surfacing just before going down for the third time. It vanishes under the choppy waters of his agitation as they cross the plaza toward the entrance. Xander lifts his hand toward his mouth, but Spike catches him by the wrist.

 

 

"Might want to leave off, pet. It's not a good place to go givin' off the smell of blood."

 

 

Xander curses and jams his hand into his pocket.

 

 

"You're all right," Spike murmurs. "Just remember to breathe."

 

 

Harmony, at least, provides a distraction while Faith is arguing with her about access to Angel.

 

 

"Yeah, that's right. A personal friend."

 

 

"_Harmony Kendall?_" Xander whispers violently.

 

 

"She works here, yeah," Spike says. "Don't worry, she's taken the pledge."

 

 

"I imagine she's eaten a few in her time. She always went for the college boys."

 

 

"No, I mean she's off the human blood. Last I knew."

 

 

"You're with her?" Harmony asks icily.

 

 

"Actually, we came to see Fred," Spike says.

 

 

"And your friend's name is-- _Xander?_ Oh my god, Xander Harris?"

 

 

"Yeah, Harmony."

 

 

"You heard about Cordy, didn't you? It was so strange. She was here, and I hugged her, and the whole time --" Harmony shudders.

 

 

"Be glad she didn't kiss you. Yeah, I know."

 

 

"_Fred_, Harm," Spike reminds her. "Can you give her a buzz, tell her we're here?"

 

 

***

 

 

Faith's still cooling her heels waiting for an audience with Angel when Spike and Xander are shown upstairs to Fred's domain.

 

 

Once they've turned from Harmony's desk, Xander gets the full view of the Wolfram &amp; Hart lobby he's been avoiding. Spike hears the inward whoosh of his breath and knows this is the location of his vision.

 

 

Their guide has heard it, too. "Is there something wrong, sir?"

 

 

"Not at all," Xander says, though Spike feels the tension humming off him. "It's just spectacular, that's all. Beautiful wood paneling."

 

 

"You have an excellent eye, sir. Everything is done in exotic hardwoods, rare species from the rainforests of Madagascar. You won't see these anyplace else."

 

 

Especially not in Madagascar, Spike's certain.

 

 

A pair of lawyers passes them on the stairway, and Xander turns, following them with his gaze. Turning back and catching Spike's eye, he mouths, "Entrails."

 

 

Easy for Wes to send Xander here for confirmation of his vision. He's not the one who has to watch him flinch each time someone bustles past him.

 

 

"Let's take the optimistic view," Spike whispers as their guide runs his keycard through the electronic reader. "Maybe this means the good guys win."

 

 

Xander shoots him a look that clearly indicates his opinion on Spike's sanity. It occurs to Spike that he _is_ more of an optimist than Xander. Maybe it's all that Victorian pap he was exposed to as a child.

 

 

They're ushered into Fred's lab, and as she turns from her work and rises from her chair, Xander takes a swift step back, bumping into a table. "Jesus," he hisses.

 

 

So much for the optimistic view.

 

 

***

 

 

Fred's unaware of his reaction, rushing toward Spike for a hug. "Hello, stranger. It's so good to -- hey, where'd your friend go?"

 

 

"What?" He steps back from Fred's embrace, looks to where Xander was.

 

 

"Out there," says the bland-faced little git who's been hovering around Fred. Knox, that's the name.

 

 

"Give us a tick, Fred," Spike says, and follows Xander back into the corridor, where he's leaned against the wall, pale and sweaty.

 

 

"You recognized her."

 

 

A slow, dazed blink is the only answer he gets.

 

 

Spike's stomach twists. "Entrails?"

 

 

Xander struggles to even out his breathing. "No. Just the head," he whispers.

 

_Christ no._ Not Fred.

 

 

'So much for the good guys winning," Xander says. "Whatever comes through here kills everything, good, bad, in between."

 

 

"Then we stop it. 'S'what we came here for, innit?"

 

 

"Is everything okay?" Fred's stepped into the hallway.

 

 

Xander straightens. "Yeah, sorry. Little bit of vertigo." He offers her his hand. "Xander Harris. Angel and I go way back."

 

 

"Nice to meet you. I'm Fred Burkle. Come on into my office, I can get you a cold drink and a chair."

 

 

"I'd appreciate that."

 

 

She runs her card through the reader, gets them back into the lab, and breezes them past Knox to settle into her office. "Wow, you look peaked," she says as Xander falls into a chair.

 

 

"Recently back from travels in Africa," Spike says. "He's had some aftereffects."

 

 

"We can do some testing, if you'd like," Fred offers. "Make sure you didn't pick up any infections over there. Our labs aren't state of the art; the art won't catch up with what we've got for at least five years."

 

 

"Thanks, I -- maybe later. If I can't shake this."

 

 

"Sure, just let me know. _Oh._ Cold drink." She bends to a small cube refrigerator beneath her desk. "Name your poison: Root beer, ginger beer, Squirt, Manhattan Special, Dr. Pepper."

 

 

"Anything's good, I don't--" he breaks off with a strangled cry, clutching his head. "The Qwa'ha Xahn," he mutters. "Not how it was meant to go. Scooped out, pureed. That a gun, Blue, or you just glad to see me?" He stops spouting nonsense then, sinking further into the chair and pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

 

 

Spike crouches in front of him. "Xander--"

 

 

Fred turns from the fridge, a bottle in hand. "Oh my lord," she breathes. "He got the visions, didn't he?"

 

 

***

 

 

"Visions?" Spike echoes stupidly. Wasn't meant to go this way. The plan was to tell Angel about the visions if they had to, not to make it general knowledge.

 

_This is Fred. It's all right, she'll help._

 

 

"I've seen Cordy's visions up close and personal for two years," Fred says. "I pretty much know 'em when I see 'em." She pulls up a chair, puts a hand on Xander's brow. "Xander, can you tell us what you saw?"

 

 

"Just flashes. Phrases, ideas. Saw a man, though. Blue. Some kind of exoskeleton, like a leather boy's wet dream." He comes back to himself enough to glance up at Fred. "Sorry, that was--"

 

 

"Don't give it a thought. Keep going, tell me whatever you remember."

 

 

"Wasn't supposed to be the vessel. Doesn't matter. It uses what it finds."

 

 

"There was a phrase you said. In some other language. Do you remember it?"

 

 

Xander shakes his head. "It's gone."

 

 

"How are you? Can I get you anything?"

 

 

"My head's splitting. Drink would be nice."

 

 

Fred hands him the soft drink she'd been holding.

 

 

"Something about Kwanzaa," Spike volunteers. "S'what it sounded like to me, anyway."

 

 

"You've gotta learn the protocol," Fred tells Xander, a smile teasing at her pretty mouth. "You say the inscrutable stuff at the end, after someone's had a chance to grab a pad and pencil."

 

 

Xander returns a weak smile. "I'll keep that in mind for the next one."

 

 

Fred's pencil dances across the paper she's snatched up. "Kwanzaa, or something that sounds like it," she murmurs. "Something about blue, and a man with a gun. Not the right vessel, you said. Was that all of it?"

 

 

Xander nods. "All I can remember now."

 

 

She leans toward him, her notes forgotten for the moment, her voice soft. "How long have you been having these?"

 

 

"Just this week. Since Cordelia--"

 

 

"She came to us," Spike says. "We all saw her. She bestowed her little gift on Xander. She said she'd been here, too."

 

 

Fred nods, those doe eyes of hers glistening with tears. "She was. Not for nearly long enough."

 

 

"You said it," Xander says.

 

 

"You were close, you two," Fred says. "A few years ago now, but you were important to each other."

 

 

"How'd you know that?"

 

 

"She talked about you. Telling stories, like girls do. She thought a lot of you, if she gave you the visions."

 

 

"Yeah, well, there's issues I'd like to bring up about that," Spike says. "But right now we need to sort out these last two. Something's going to happen, and it's ugly, and it's happening here."

 

 

Fred readies her pencil and pad. "Let's see what we can come up with."

 

 

"It's about Connor," Xander says softly, watching her intently.

 

 

"Honor," she says. "Well, that can get you in all kinds of trouble."

 

 

Xander shoots Spike a significant look, then plunges into his story. He comes to a stammering halt before the worst of it. "I can't."

 

 

"It's bad," Spike says. "A massacre. Everyone dead." Somehow he can't bring himself to tell Fred what Xander saw of her fate, either.

 

 

"It's all right," she says. "Take a few breaths. Let's think about what we have. I can get some people on--"

 

 

"_No_." Xander's hand flashes out to seize her arm. "I don't want word of the visions getting out. We're telling Angel, and you. Lorne knows; he came to do a reading on a client for us. Wolfram &amp; Hart at large can't know. Dangerous enough coming here."

 

 

"All right," she says after a pause. "Listen, are you hurt? Let me take a look at your arm."

 

 

"It's mystical." Xander disengages his wrist from her grip. "It's not going away, but it won't harm me. It's not important. Let's get back to work."

 

 

Reluctantly she backs off, taking up her pad and pencil. "Let's go over what we have."

 

 

Before they can get started, Xander's cellphone noodles its little song. He listens a moment, says _Okay_, then flips the phone shut.

 

 

"It's Faith. She said we'd better get down there, 'and I mean now.'" He looks up at Spike. "She sounded really strange."

 

 

***

 

 

Wasting no time, Fred leads them to Angel's office. Her knuckles barely graze the door before it opens a crack, and Faith greets them.

 

 

"You need backup?" Xander asks.

 

 

"I need some fuckin' witnesses."

 

 

"You told him everything?"

 

 

"I couldn't even get started." Her brow's furrowed, and her mouth's quivering as if she's fighting pain.

 

 

"_Faith--_" Angel snarls, unseen in the office. "I'm warning you--"

 

 

That's all it takes. Xander shoulders past her into the room, and Spike follows on his heels. Then there's a strange hissing noise from behind, which turns to laughter. Faith's, it sounds like. Never took her for the hysterical type.

 

 

"Oh," Fred says. "There wasn't time to fill you in."

 

 

"_Faith, I swear to god--_"

 

 

Spike's wishing they'd been able to sneak in a few weapons to Wolfram &amp; Hart. He looks around wildly for something usable, sees a potentially useful vase but no Angel.

 

 

The air whooshes out of Xander. "Holy shit."

 

 

"_Everybody leave. Now._"

 

 

"This might just be the best moment of my entire life," Xander says.

 

 

"He's gone all Fraggle Rock," Faith says, and again dissolves into giggles -- a phrase he's never associated with Faith -- and Spike finally locates Angel, who's several feet lower to the ground, and made of felt.

 

 

"It's a spell," Angel says in a tone of exaggerated patience laced with hostility. "It should wear off any time now. Feel free to come back tomorrow."

 

 

"It's gotta be now," Faith tells him. "We're talking life or death."

 

 

"We've got a new conduit to the visions," Fred says.

 

 

"Not Wolfram &amp; Hart's conduit," Xander says. "I'm here about something specific, I'm not signing on."

 

 

"_You_? The Powers That Be chose _you_?"

 

 

"_Cordy_ chose me. Why don't we just jump to the part where you deal with it, because I don't think we have a ton of time here. Is that _really_ you, or are you just fucking with us? I don't know if I can talk apocalypse with a puppet."

 

 

The puppet's brows bunch angrily, looking so true to Angel that Spike himself gets a fit of amusement. He doesn't bother trying to squelch his snickers.

 

 

"Feel free to leave," Angel says.

 

 

"His emotions are a little closer to the bone," Fred explains. "It's part of the spell."

 

 

"Didn't think puppets had bones," Spike observes.

 

 

"_Spike!_" He has quite a voice for such a wee little thing.

 

 

"I could appeal to you on the whole 'world in peril' angle," Xander says. "But that's pretty old hat." He whips his cellphone from his pocket and snaps a picture of Angel. "So let's go for this: Talk to us now, or I send this picture to Buffy."

 

 

"I never liked you, Harris."

 

 

"Don't have to. It's just a conversation, not a date."

 

 

Angel sighs extravagantly and waves a three-fingered hand at a leather sofa and chairs. "Over here."

 

 

"Fred, pet," Spike says, "We need a bit of privacy."

 

 

"Oh. Uh, sure. I can see what I make of my notes on the vision. Give a yell if you need me."

 

 

When the door closes behind her, Xander settles into a chair. "Wouldn't just bring you any apocalypse, Angel. I don't know if you knew, but we've gotten through a few without you. This one's special. As near as I can tell, this one has a part for your son."

 

 

***

 

 

"Son," Angel echoes. He's always been a master of the impassive face, but the felt gives even less away. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

 

 

"Nice try," Xander says. "But we've met your boy. Pleasant kid. Real well adjusted. I can see how it would take some serious mojo to accomplish that."

 

 

Angel draws himself up to his full height, which unfortunately isn't enough to be anywhere near menacing.

 

 

Faith directs a glare at Xander. "Don't be a dick." She turns to Angel. "Sorry. I meant to do this solo. Connor came to us, yeah." She lets the name sink in and suddenly the felt is a lot less unreadable. "He saw the flyer for the agency. He's had some guy sniffing around, trying to convince Connor he's got a special destiny. Pretty boy we both know. Lindsey McDonald."

 

 

"Sonofa--"

 

 

"It gets worse," Faith says. "He told Connor his name is Doyle. We figure it's all some kind of plan to get to you."

 

 

"He's the one who said I have a son? You know not to--"

 

 

"Cut it out, Angel," Faith says.

 

 

"Lorne's the one who told us," Spike says. "He heard the boy sing."

 

 

"The whole deal came back to him," Faith adds.

 

 

"To Connor?"

 

 

"Nah. He's still college boy. But Lorne remembers everything. He said there's gotta be some major league mojo involved to shift so many people's memories. Anybody else help you make that decision, Angel? Cause I'm not too crazy about having pieces whacked out of my life, no matter how small. Wes and Fred and Gunn -- they had even more to lose, didn't they? And Connor himself--"

 

 

"If you're getting ready to ask what I think you are, you can stop right there," Angel says. "You don't know how he was."

 

 

"Bad enough to erase him completely, remake him? Too bad you didn't have those kind of skills to work on me, back in the day."

 

 

"You were different, Faith. You wanted to change, and you did. He was going to destroy himself, and take a whole lot of innocent people with him."

 

 

"So I wasn't as bad as him. But my fate is the same -- getting my memories raped. Maybe not as extensively as him, but nobody asked me. And what about Wes? What about--"

 

 

Angel's scowl is amplified on his tiny felt face. "This is nonnegotiable. It's done, and it's not going to be undone. If you've got something else to discuss, let's get to it. I've got a business to run."

 

 

"For now you do," Spike says. "There's an apocalypse brewing."

 

 

"So you said."

 

 

"It's one of the fun ones," Xander says. "Apocalypse con carnage. Strictly non-vegetarian."

 

 

"You saw this in a vision."

 

 

"In a couple," Xander replies. "Your son's not gonna make it. Neither is his girlfriend. Or Lorne or Fred. That staircase out there in the lobby? It makes a really striking waterfall. Hot and cold running blood, both demon and human."

 

 

Angel doesn't allow himself a visible reaction. "So we stop this from happening."

 

 

"That's a great notion. I hope it gets more detailed than that, because I'm new at these visions, and nobody's handed me the owner's manual."

 

 

"Lay it out for me," Angel says. "Tell me the whole thing from the start -- especially everything you can think of about Lindsey."

 

 

***

 

 

They lay it out for him. Everything, including Xander beating the living shit out of Lindsey (which prompts a certain amount of surprise from Faith) and Spike following up with his own bit of the old ultra-violence.

 

 

Not quite everything.

 

 

Spike doesn't admit that Lindsey's the one who brought him back.

 

 

Once they've finished relating the story, Angel steeples his three-fingered hands in front of his face. Finally he says, "Leave it to me. I'll take care of it."

 

 

"What's this?" Xander says. "What are we, the local yokel cops, and you're swooping in now like the FBI to muscle us out of the way? This is our case, Angel."

 

 

Angel slaps his hand on the coffee table, but the only sound it makes is like a wet sock hitting a bare floor. "_He's my son._"

 

 

"Then maybe you should have someone who's objective in there working for you," Xander says. "You can't step back, see things clearly."

 

 

"There is no stepping back where my son is concerned. Not when he strapped himself to a bomb. Not when Lindsey's got some plan to use him to get to me. Not ever. Anything threatens his life, his sanity, his happiness, you don't ask me to step back. Not a one of you has a child. Lorne doesn't, Wesley doesn't. Not a one of you understands what it means. I'll do _whatever_ it takes to keep him safe. If that's not your plan, you're not on this _case_ anymore."

 

 

Xander looks away, a tic throbbing at his jaw.

 

 

"Wasn't you who hired us," Spike says softly.

 

 

"I will handle this," Angel says. "If Lindsey comes near Connor again, he'll be in a world of hurt." He pauses, just for a heartbeat -- if he had one. "That goes for all of you, too. Stay away from my boy."

 

 

"You can't be serious!" Faith sputters. "You're fuckin' putting us on the same level as Lindsey?"

 

 

"You're just as dangerous to him. Maybe worse, because you think you know something about the greater good. Don't come near him. I've got people -- except they aren't, y'know, people."

 

 

"Your _people_," Xander says. "Are they handy with the apocalypse stuff?" He looks around the room, taking in the posh surroundings. "I suspect they are, but maybe not on the side you're used to." He stands up. "I've had enough of this."

 

 

The rest of them get to their feet as well.

 

 

"I've never liked you, Angel," Xander says. "But I'd have never believed you could become this."

 

 

"Get out."

 

 

"With pleasure," Spike says.

 

 

Faith pauses at the door, turning back. "Angel--"

 

 

"I can arrange an escort."

 

 

She stiffens. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm out of here."

 

 

Faith shoves past Xander and Spike, her boots hammering the hardwood floor as she leads their retreat.

 

 

***

 

 

Harmony calls after them, bustling toward them with a supersized umbrella. "Please accept this with our compliments."

 

 

"I don't want _shit_ from Wolfram &amp; Hart," Faith says, and steams on toward the elevator.

 

 

"Oh, but these are really nice," Harmony says. "Big enough to keep all of you dry out there."

 

 

And it beats a nasty old blanket when it's sunny out. Spike takes the umbrella. "Ta, Harm."

 

 

The elevator doors glide open and they get in. "Now I see where this apoca-rain is coming from," Xander says. "It's a Wolfram &amp; Hart plot to get their logo umbrellas out there all over the city."

 

 

"Like they need to advertise," Spike comments.

 

 

"Do I have to listen to you two yammer?" Faith snaps. When they reach the lobby, she shoves on through the revolving door without waiting for Spike to go out first and open the umbrella.

 

 

"Does she seem like she's in a bad mood to you?" Xander offers a lopsided grin. The vision's eased its grip, if he can manage a joke. His cellphone plays a different song -- "That's _Amore_" -- and his grin turns genuine. "This will cheer me up." He waits for Spike to step out and unfurl the umbrella as he flips open the phone. "Hey, Buff."

 

 

The sound of the rain against the umbrella muffles his voice as he goes on. "Thought you'd enjoy that." They head in the direction of flashing hazard lights. The truck has gone. "No, it's not a toy. It's him. Some kind of spell, we didn't get the story, but it's supposed to wear off any time." They reach the car, and Faith fumbles in her pocket for the keys. Tight as her trousers are, there's not much space for both keys and hand in there. "Did you notice his hands? Three fing-- _huh_." Xander stumbles against Faith.

 

 

"What? _Another_ damn vision?"

 

 

But Spike smells the coppery tang of blood blossoming in the air. "_Get in get in get in!_"

 

 

Faith whirls and sees the crossbow bolt thrusting out of Xander's chest. "Fuck!" Her gaze darts around the plaza. "I'm going after--"

 

 

"No. We need to get him to casualty, _now_."

 

 

Faith gets the doors sorted and slides in behind the wheel, while Spike bundles Xander in the back and climbs in beside him. "I can't believe this," Faith sputters. "Fuck, Angel's really far gone." There's a solid stream of traffic, but Faith bullies her way into it.

 

 

"Didn't see _that_ coming," Xander says vaguely. "You'd think I would, otherwise what's the point?" He suddenly recalls the phone in his hand, raising it with a wince. "Buff, something's come up. I'll have to get back to you," he says, his voice unnaturally calm. "Give my love to Dawn and Will, okay? Hell, Giles, too. And I love you, you know that, right? 'Kay. Talk to you soon." The phone tumbles from his hand and snaps shut as it hits the floorboard.

 

 

"Hold on, mate. We're not far."

 

 

"Could you ... " Xander twitches a small gesture toward the bolt, "this thing outta me?"

 

 

"Wait and let the doc have at it, yeah? Might've nicked a bleeder there, best to leave it alone."

 

 

"Good thing it was me, not you, huh?"

 

 

Not in the least. "Came nowhere near your heart. Christ, Faith, can't you move this crate any faster?"

 

 

"Hang on." She swerves the car into the oncoming traffic lanes, laying on the horn in a long, steady blast. Not surprisingly, they pick up a police escort, but Faith keeps the accelerator pressed to the floor.

 

 

Spike fumbles at the buttons of Xander's shirt, peeling the blood-soaked cloth back. He seizes Xander's hand, which feels lax. "Here. Hold this as best you can. Faith, is there a first aid kit in the car?"

 

 

"I need both hands right now, and we're just half a block away. Hang on, there's a big turn coming."

 

 

Spike braces and tightens his grip on Xander as the sound of sirens and car horns raises to a crescendo. Then they're bouncing over a curb and careening toward a huge red sign that says EMERGENCY. Faith slams on the brakes and they skid on the wet pavement, coming perilously close to an ambulance and the paramedic just closing its rear door.

 

 

"We got an emergency!" Faith shouts, and in seconds all four doors are wrenched open, guns pointed in every single one of them. "We got wounded! Help or get the fuck out of the way!"

 

 

***

 

 

Once the cops suss out the situation, they give way to the hospital staff, who carefully extract Xander from the backseat of the car. "You stay with Xander," Faith says. "I'll park and be right in." Spike scoops up Xander's cell from the floorboard.

 

 

"What's your relationship to the patient?" an orderly asks.

 

 

"Brotherrr," he says, hitting the _R_ extra hard to sound plausibly American. "Can I go in--" He gestures after the gurney that's whisked Xander to the interior of the ER.

 

 

"We need to get him stabilized," the orderly says. "And the police have a few questions, I believe."

 

_Oh, sod this._ He heaves a sigh, though, and follows the cop into a small room that's otherwise unoccupied. He relates the truth about what happened, that an unseen sniper with crossbow attacked as they were leaving Wolfram &amp; Hart. "No reason that I can see." If there's a way of finding out who attacked Xander, the cops sure as hell aren't the ones to figure it out. And based on Sunnydale's exalted PD, Spike suspects most of the force is in the pocket of Wolfram &amp; Hart anyway. After a few more questions, and an equally quick interview with Faith, the officers head off to investigate the scene.

 

 

As soon as they're out of sight, Spike settles into a waiting room chair, pulling out Xander's cell to track down Fred's direct number. "Don't let on it's me, pet. If you're not alone, go somewhere private."

 

 

"_Mom_, oh my gosh, what a surprise! Let me take this in my office."

 

 

He's briefly put on hold, then Fred returns. "Okay, we're good. What's going on?"

 

 

"I need you to get out of Wolfram &amp; Hart, as soon as you can."

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"Xander had a vision. There's some kind of carnage on the way. We're trying to head it off, but it's gotten complicated, love. I want you out."

 

 

"Maybe I should be here. If there's evil that needs fighting--"

 

 

"No. Xander recognized you from the vision. I'm not going into what he saw, but it's not pretty. Trust me. I want you to come to us."

 

 

"Where are you?"

 

 

"Right now, at the hospital. Xander was shot with a crossbow as we were leaving Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"_Shot?_ But who would--" Her voice drops. "Oh Spike. Someone's looked at my notes. They're not exactly as I left them, but so subtle I didn't-- It must have been when we went down to Angel's office."

 

 

"Whatever's coming has an inside man. Fred, pet, I want you to leave now. Don't say where you're going, or look particularly urgent about it."

 

 

"You tell 'em I'm on my way." Fred's voice is back to its perkiest pitch. "And give my love to Daddy."

 

 

Spike flips the phone shut. "She sends her love, Daddy," he tells Faith.

 

 

"What's the story on her end?"

 

 

"Someone looked at the notes she wrote. While she was off taking us to see Angel."

 

 

"You think someone understood what all that gibberish meant?"

 

 

"I do. And we've seen what they'll do to keep us from figuring it out in time."

 

 

Faith erupts. "Fuck this shit! I have totally had it with the apocalypse! There's one every goddamn year." She looks up at the nurse who's just approached them on silent rubber soles. "Movies, ya know? Would it kill 'em to make something different?"

 

 

"You're the Harris family?"

 

 

"Yes," Spike says.

 

 

"Your brother needs emergency surgery. He's unable to sign the consent forms."

 

 

Spike grabs the nurse's clipboard. "Show me where."

 

 

***

 

 

When he's signed in triplicate and stuffed one of the copies in his pocket, the nurse asks if they'd like a minute with their brother before he goes into the OR.

 

 

"You go," Faith tells Spike. "He's closer to you."

 

 

"It might be good to come," the nurse urges gently, and Faith gets to her feet with no further hesitation.

 

 

She leads them down a corridor and into a curtained cubicle where orderlies are already preparing Xander's gurney for transport, clipping a transfusion bag on an arm attached to the bed. Spike feels a strange mix of hunger and nausea at the sight.

 

 

The crossbow bolt's been removed, the wound covered with a bandage whose loose edge flutters with the hiss of Xander's breath. Spike's not sure if he's drugged for the surgery or merely unconscious.

 

 

"Jesus," Faith whispers.

 

 

Spike shoots her a filthy look, and she steps up to the bedside, touches Xander's arm.

 

 

"Xander, it's Faith. Be fierce. You got that? Gotta get better so you don't miss out on the fun."

 

 

She gives way to Spike, who goes blank. All that comes to him is what William's mum used to say when he was sick. "Think of someplace nice, yeah? Somewhere you'd like to be." He's dropped the attempt at an American accent; he wants Xander to know -- on whatever level might still be aware -- who's there with him. "Africa at night. Peaceful spot, far away from trouble. Night sounds soft and distant, darkness like velvet. Perfectly safe. I'm there with you, just the two of us, looking at those stars we talked about, marveling at how many." He senses the orderlies are wrapping up their preparations. "You dream on that while you're sleeping. When you wake up, you can tell me all about it."

 

 

"We have to go," one of the orderlies says gently.

 

 

"We'll see you in a bit," Spike says, squeezing Xander's hand and then letting go, watching them roll the gurney out of the room.

 

 

He turns to find Faith staring at him.

 

 

"_Wot?!_ 'S'what me mum used to do, when I was a lad, an' sick." Which wasn't an inconsiderable amount of time, not that he's telling her.

 

 

"This way," their nurse guide says.

 

 

As she leads them to the surgical waiting room, Faith says, "No, I was just -- He talks to you about Africa?"

 

 

"Only a bit. I've been there too, so...."

 

 

The nurse gives them a quick orientation before she goes -- coffee, bog, chapel -- and Spike tells her they've another family member on the way, Winifred. The nurse says they'll send her right up.

 

 

Of course there's the stupid goggle-box hanging on the wall, with the most asinine thing he can imagine playing to the shell-shocked handful who wait. (Jerry Springer -- exactly the sort of thing he'd watch, Spike knows that, but right now he'd love to chuck a brick through the screen.)

 

 

Faith seems oblivious, carrying on with her train of conversation. "Just then you made it sound like ... well, like he loves the place."

 

 

"I think he does. Haven't got much out of him yet, but he said he misses the nights there. The dark."

 

 

"But -- it fucked him up so much. How can he love it?"

 

 

Spike shrugs. "It's the same with people sometimes, innit? An' it wasn't Africa, really. It was her."

 

 

"I dunno. I don't get it. Want some coffee? Not this machine crap, the espresso bar she told us about by the gift shop."

 

 

Spike shakes his head. "I'm good for now."

 

 

"Nothing else? All right then, I'll be back in a few. I'll find somewhere I can get a signal and call Wes, too. See what he might know on this Kwanzaa vision thing."

 

 

"Good idea." Spike moves as far as he can from the television, but it's still an assault. He feels like he's come from that peaceful, dark African night he was describing to Xander into the bright cold light of the Vegas strip. Sitting here, wearing the blood of his lover on his shirt, listening to a couple wrangling about the affair she had with her niece -- if he were in the studio with these people, he'd happily rip their throats out, and Jerry's for good measure. Abruptly he stands and walks down the hallway.

 

 

He leans against the wall across from the chapel entrance. His inner Victorian gentleman, apparently as close to the surface as his demon, urges him inside.

 

_Does God hear the prayers of little vampires?_

 

 

Nothing says he has to pray. He asks no one for nothing.

 

 

Just a few minutes of quiet, that's all he wants.

 

 

He steps inside.

 

 

***

 

 

When Spike returns from the chapel, Faith's back in the waiting room, both hands wrapped around a small vat of coffee. He's never seen her so still; she ignores the blaring television, the tattered pile of magazines on a nearby table, the others waiting around her. Instead she fixes her gaze on a poster about pediatric vaccination, as if she's never read anything so engrossing.

 

 

He settles in next to her, and she rouses herself to say "Hey" in a distracted tone. After a moment she turns toward him. "Couldn't find you when I got back."

 

 

Spike nods. "Got a bit restless, so I went for a --" _Walk_ is what he planned to say, but he takes a sudden hairpin turn into the truth. "-- a sit-down in the chapel there. 'S'quiet."

 

 

"Christ, it really is the end of the world." If it were anyone but Faith, he'd say she looks close to tears. "Nurse all but told us he's gonna die."

 

 

"She never said that."

 

 

"She said I oughta go back and see him before he went up. Same thing."

 

 

"It's serious, yeah. But people survive this all the time. And we both know Harris is too damn stubborn to do anything on anyone's timetable, much less die. In no time at all he'll be back with us, motormouthing as always."

 

 

Faith picks at the cardboard sleeve cradling her coffee. "Except he really doesn't anymore, does he? He's been different since his goddess got taken from him. I didn't see him full-power crazy, but somebody told me, Wes maybe, that he was even faster with the patter. Now sometimes it's like pulling teeth."

 

 

"He's working things through, is all."

 

 

"I'm glad we dealt with our shit, y'know? Actually, I dunno if you know what our shit _is_, but it was pretty serious. Things were too grim, I guess, to think about that back in Sunnydale, but we finally got it put to rest after the goddess thing was over."

 

 

"Could tell there was something. Back in Sunnydale, I mean. Can tell it's gone now. He trusts you. You talking him down last night -- if you needed proof he trusts you, it's right there." The shrieking of Jerry's Kids reaches a crescendo, and he looks at the box for a brief moment. "Occurs to me we have some history needs sorting out. From the last days of Sunny D."

 

 

Faith scrunches her brows. "What? Wait -- that wasn't shit, that was a policy disagreement with fists. I gave as good as I got. An' I knew where it was coming from. Settled long ago, far as I'm concerned."

 

 

Then he hears the tang of a familiar accent coming down the hall, and the tension in his neck eases a bit. "Fred."

 

 

***

 

 

"You got away with no one suspecting?" Spike asks.

 

 

"I'm pretty sure. I said a cousin flying through LAX had a long layover, and I was taking four hours to show them around a little. It'll buy me some time before they miss me. How's Xander?"

 

 

"He's in surgery."

 

 

"They shot him in the chest," Faith says. "Crossbow. We saw him just before he went in. He was making this _sound_ \--"

 

 

A little crease appears at the corner of Fred's mouth. "Tension pneumothorax." She sits in the empty chair next to Faith.

 

 

"Yeah right. New-mown borax." Faith shoots a look at Spike. "Didn't I tell ya that's what he has?"

 

 

Fred's hand flutters an apology. "It's when air gets into the space around the lungs but can't get out. The lung collapses and if it's not treated, the pressure keeps building and collapses the circulatory system as well. That sound you mentioned -- it's characteristic. The term 'sucking chest wound' comes from that noise."

 

 

"Suck is the word," Faith mutters.

 

 

"The important thing is, you got him help right away," Fred assures them.

 

 

"The important thing is," Faith counters, "your people shot one of ours. Any thoughts on that?"

 

 

Fred bunches her hair up in a fist. "There were four others in the lab when we went down to Angel's office. Any of them could easily have gone up to my office, taken a look at my notes." She rattles off three names in quick succession. "I can call Charles. He can check them out, discreetly, of course."

 

 

Faith shakes her head. "I don't want anybody else in on this."

 

 

"But you know Charles," Fred protests. "He's been with Angel since--"

 

 

"The people I trust aren't with Angel anymore," Faith says. "Sorry, but that's how it is."

 

 

"You said there were four," Spike prompts, though he knows the answer. "There's one more."

 

 

"Yeah," Fred says, barely above a whisper. "Knox." Her lover. Spike had smelled them on each other when he and Xander arrived at the lab.

 

 

"One of these four, I'm betting, knows what these notes mean," Spike says. "Which puts us at a disadvantage. And they've put our seer out of commission for the time being."

 

 

"I guess kidnapping and torture are out of the question," Faith comments. "Seeing how I'm rehabilitated and all. Ever notice how the good guys are at a disadvantage on that one, too?"

 

 

"Look, I've gotten to know Knox," Fred says. "He's a sweet guy."

 

 

"Aw, that's nice," Faith scoffs. "That and $4.75 will buy me a double-shot latte downstairs."

 

 

Fred looks down at her hands, which are toying with the hem of her filmy little flower-spattered dress. Spike regards his two brunette birds, one delicate and sweet, with a man's name. The other tough as nails -- fierce, to use her word -- with her bovver boots and her pretty, feminine name. He hasn't forgotten which one fought so hard for him when he was a ghostie being sucked toward hell. Thing is, Spike hates the thought of that benefit of a doubt being turned on the undeserving and dangerous -- and he's willing to go out on a limb and say Knox fits both categories.

 

 

Fred looks up. "Let's go at this from another angle. I'm your woman when it comes to science, but Wesley's the mystical expert. Let's get him in on this."

 

 

"Already done," Faith says. "But we've got an emergency backup we ain't thought to use." She gets to her feet. "I'm heading back out to where the signal's strong. I'm calling Giles."

 

 

***

 

 

Fred watches Faith swagger down the hallway. "She's a person you want on your side," she murmurs.

 

 

"She is that," Spike says.

 

 

"First time I met her, she'd come to help us bring back Angel. She's kind of ... a force of nature."

 

 

"Bring Angel back? From where?"

 

 

"We had kind of an apocalypse situation going, so we'd called Angelus forth."

 

 

"You _what?!_ Let me guess, this brilliant plan was thought up by someone who'd never actually met him. You do know he's a bit of an apocalypse fan."

 

 

The pink rises in her cheeks. "Well, we -- Cordelia was -- oh, yeah, she _was_ evil at the time." She twists the ends of her hair. "There were compelling arguments."

 

 

"I'll have to take your word for it," Spike says dubiously.

 

 

"Wes got her out of prison, and she came. She was unbelievable. It's hard to see her so mistrustful of Angel now. She was willing to lay her life on the line for him."

 

 

"Hard for her, then, don't you think? He swatted her aside just now, like a mosquito. Told us all to mind our own business or pay the price. Harris and I, we're used to that from Himself. Angel and I have kind of a love-hate, and with Harris, it leans a little more to extreme dislike-hate. But Faith, she hero-worships him, dunno why."

 

 

"He saved her," she says softly. "Just as he did me. Different demons, is all."

 

 

"Well, what's happening now cancels that out for her. She half believes he ordered the attack on Xander."

 

 

"_No._ I know Angel well enough to know that's not true."

 

 

"All the more reason to find out who is responsible, then." He glances up at the box only to find that one set of inbreds has given way to another, bickering before a divorce court judge every bit as naff as them. "I'd stay away from home for a bit, I were you. Till we get this apocalypse sorted."

 

 

"I don't think I have anything to fear from--"

 

 

"Yeah, you're right. Vision's probably a load of bollocks. Severed heads and all -- a little over the top, if you ask me."

 

 

Fred abruptly releases her hair, which untwists on its own. "I -- I'll find a hotel."

 

 

"Don't use the corporate card." He teases a business card from his wallet. "Give us a call when you're settled."

 

 

Fred nods. "I think I'll stop by my place and get a few things. They still think I'm showing my cousin around."

 

 

"Dunno, pet. For all you know, they've been watching your place since you signed up with Wolfram &amp; Hart."

 

 

"Thanks for the paranoia, Spike. It'll be okay."

 

 

"Christ, go buy yourself a few things. Don't they shovel the money at you faster than you can spend it?"

 

 

She gets to her feet. "It'll be all right. _He'll_ be all right. I'd better go."

 

 

Spike gives up. "Be careful, yeah?" Annoyed, he grabs a magazine from a nearby table. Celebrity gossip six months out of date. At least it's not Oprah's uplifting shite. He really couldn't bear that just now.

 

 

"...seem really scattered right now. I just got in from Italy, and before that it was two months in Indonesia."

 

 

Spike feels the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.

 

 

"It's lucky you happen to be in the city, then," says another voice. The nurse who's been shepherding the many siblings of Xander Harris. "It's great to see, how close your family is. That's really important at a time like this. And here's your brother."

 

 

The magazine falls to the floor at his feet.

 

 

"Spike," Buffy whispers.

 

 

***

 

 

He stands. "Hullo, Buffy."

 

 

She stands there for a moment, staring at Spike, trying to form words. Abruptly she turns to the nurse who escorted her. "Th-thank you."

 

 

She gives Buffy a squeeze on her arm, then bustles back down the hallway.

 

 

"I came as soon as I--"

 

 

"But Italy's more'n eight hours away."

 

 

"Willow sent me." Buffy's hand flashes out, giving Spike a hard shove against his shoulder.

 

 

Spike stumbles back a step, but recovers. "Not the First, love," he says softly. "Really is me. She didn't tell you, then? Or Giles?"

 

 

"I've been unreachable for a few weeks. Scouting Slayers. She tried. First when I called and told her I needed a locator spell. Then when she called and told me she was ready to send me. It was all stammering and 'Buffy, there's something I need to tell you' and I could tell it would take forever and Xander --" Her eyes suddenly glisten with tears. "I was sure he was dying. Is he--?"

 

 

"He's hanging on. It's serious, though."

 

 

"We were just talking. I was dragging my suitcases up the stairs when he sent that picture, and he was joking, and he just stopped talking in the middle of a sentence. I could hear all this chaos, and then he was back on. He wanted me to know he loved me, and I knew--" A sob escapes her then, and Spike pulls her close.

 

 

"I know, pet. I know," he murmurs into her hair. "I was there."

 

 

She pulls away. "So what happened?"

 

 

"We were leaving Wolfram &amp; Hart after talking to Angel."

 

 

"That's not what-- Sorry. Go on."

 

 

"Let's have a sit." He draws her over to the chairs he'd occupied with Faith. "Like I said, we'd just been talking to Angel about a case. There's an apocalypse brewing, by the way. Or at least a major bloodbath. We were crossing the plaza outside the building, and Xander took a crossbow bolt to the chest."

 

 

"None of this makes sense. What d'you mean, a case? Who's we?"

 

 

"Just now, Faith, Xander an' me. I've been working with them -- with Wes and Annie and, well, I guess Lorne's in it too. Supernatural detective agency, like Angel had, back in the day."

 

 

"You've _been working_. How long have-- I thought you were-- I didn't see how you could survive that."

 

 

"Didn't. Went up like a bloody bonfire. Felt my skin burnin' away like parchment."

 

 

"Spike--"

 

 

He sketches an apologetic smile. "Sorry, pet. At any rate, I saw it all coming down around me, and then the next thing I knew, I was _un_burning, and there I was in Angel's office with half his bloody staff gawpin' at me. 'S'been three, four months now, I reckon."

 

 

"And you couldn't pick up a phone?" she asks acidly.

 

 

Spike can't suppress a laugh. "Actually, I couldn't, at first. When I came back I wasn't any more corporeal than the First. Was weeks before we got that sorted, then .. well, I reckon I needed time to think things through. See what kind of new life I'm meant to have. I thought I should give you time to do the same."

 

 

"I meant what I said that day."

 

 

"I believe you. Believed you then."

 

 

"You did a great job making that clear," she says drily. "So what do we do?"

 

 

"Keep working on those new lives, yeah? Haven't grown into them yet, either one of us."

 

 

"Keep baking that cookie dough," Buffy says.

 

 

"You're tired, pet."

 

 

"No, I just -- wow." She puts a hand to her head.

 

 

"It's the teleporting. Hit Giles the same way."

 

 

"Giles? He's here?"

 

 

"No, love. That was a while back. We've got some catching up to do. But right now, why don't you rest your head a bit." He taps his shoulder with two fingers, and Buffy settles in against him without another word.

 

_Got a _lot_ of catching up to do._

 

 

***

 

 

Faith returns at last, with another quart-sized container of Starbucks. She breaks stride for just a second when she spots Buffy asleep against his shoulder, then parks herself on Spike's other side. "Another sister? We're rounding _The Brady Bunch_ and heading full-tilt for _Eight Is Enough_. _What?_ I admit it. I'm a sucker for those stupid old happy-family shows. How'd _she_ get here so fast?"

 

 

"Magic Express. Willow sent her."

 

 

Faith scowls and snatches up a magazine, flipping the pages with a certain degree of violence.

 

 

"I feel the same about Tom Cruise myself," Spike says.

 

 

"_What?_"

 

 

"You're brassed off about something."

 

 

"Talk English for crissakes. You're in America now."

 

 

"What's got your knickers in a twist?"

 

 

She turns a page, leaving a rip across Paris Hilton's face.

 

 

Spike sighs, then puts on the American accent again. "You seem peeved, sisterrr. What's perrturrbing you?"

 

 

She tosses the magazine back on the table. "So what happens now that your dream date has made the scene? You gonna ditch him?"

 

 

He drops into his normal tone, softened just a bit. "I'm ditching no one, pet."

 

 

"You better not be."

 

 

"We're on the same side. Glad to see you looking out for him, though."

 

 

Faith grabs another magazine, sitting back in her chair. "How much longer they gonna be?"

 

 

"It takes as long as it takes," he says, but privately he's been wondering the very same thing.

 

 

***

 

 

He asks how the conversations went with both Wes and Giles, and she says, "All I got was pretty much 'I'll get right on it.' No instant connections. Giles is a little freaked by the whole vision thing. Apparently he never knew about Cordelia. The L.A. people and the Sunnydale people are like the damn FBI and CIA. Nobody talks to nobody."

 

 

"What about Cordelia?" Buffy shifts next to Spike and sits up, reaching up to check the corners of her mouth for drool.

 

 

"What I was just talking about, Cordelia's had visions for the last several years. Guideposts to whatever shit is brewing, pointers to people who need help. But the other thing you should know about her is she's dead. Just a few days ago."

 

 

Buffy's hand flies back up to her mouth. "Oh. How--?"

 

 

"She'd been ill for a long time, pet," Spike says gently. "Some supernatural beastie trying to claw its way into the world."

 

 

"Wow. I just -- wow. We hadn't talked in forever, but it's hard imagining a world without her in it."

 

 

"Red and Giles," Spike says. "Are they coming too?"

 

 

"There was some talk on that," Faith says. "But Giles needs to crack the books, and they both -- Giles kept reminding Willow how skittish Xander was about going to England, being around too many friends. If we call, they'll be here on the double, but they're gonna hang back."

 

 

Spike nods, more relieved than he'd have expected.

 

 

Buffy frowns. "Xander skittish about seeing his friends? Something does not compute."

 

 

"A lot's happened since Xander got back from Africa," Spike tells her. "Guess now's as good a time as any."

 

 

But before he can launch into the story of Xander's return to L.A., a bloke in scrubs approaches them. "Are you Alexander Harris' family?"

 

 

***

 

 

"Yeah, that's us," Faith volunteers. "You got news?"

 

 

He nods. "I'm Dr. Chaudhury." He's tall and lanky, with coal black hair threaded with a few strands of silver despite his obvious youth. "Mr. Harris is in the recovery room now."

 

 

Buffy clutches Spike's wrist. "How is he?"

 

 

The doctor sits on the coffee table across from them. "Everything's looking good. We went in and repaired the damage to his lung and cleaned out some debris from the bolt and his clothing. We placed a tube--"

 

 

Buffy's hand tightens. "A breathing tube?"

 

 

"Not at all," the doctor says. "He's breathing just fine on his own. What we put in place is a tube that releases air from the area around the lungs, which will allow the lung to inflate normally. It'll also take care of any blood or other fluids from the injury site. We'll remove that once his lung's functioning normally again."

 

 

Spike can't help thinking of a consumptive being shipped off to the country for long months of rest. "How long will that take?"

 

 

"More than a week, most likely. Maybe as many as two. It depends on his recovery. He'll need respiratory therapy to make sure he doesn't get pneumonia. We're already giving him prophylactic antibiotics to ward off any infection, and pain medication to keep him comfortable. He's young and extremely healthy, so I expect an unremarkable recovery."

 

 

"Thanks, doc," Faith says. "We were afraid it was gonna be a lot worse."

 

 

"It's a potentially life-threatening injury, but I'm the guy you want for things like this. I do a lot of collapsed lungs. Spontaneous, some of them. Some from drive-by shootings. He's my first crossbow, though."

 

 

"Oh, we bring the novelty," Buffy says. "It's a Sc-- a Harris trademark. When can we see Xander?"

 

 

"We'll be moving him to a room shortly, and once he's settled in, a brief visit should be all right. Let's limit it to one visitor at a time for today, and see how things are looking tomorrow." A page crackles over the loudspeaker, indistinct, but Dr. Chaudhury turns his head sharply to listen. "I have to go. Have me paged if you have further questions later."

 

 

"Not lacking in confidence," Buffy says once he's gone. "I like that in someone who's cutting into one of my friends."

 

 

"He's the guy I want, all right," Faith murmurs. "I would nail him in a red hot minute. He reminds me of that Gaius dude, except for the batshit crazy part."

 

 

"Is that someone I should know about?" Buffy asks.

 

 

"Harris has imposed sci-fi night on all of us," Spike explains. Though no one minds, really. It was a sign of the old Xander that they'd all greeted with relief.

 

 

"We should decide who sees Xander first," Faith says. "I'm thinking it's Spike."

 

 

"Spike?" Buffy echoes.

 

 

"'S'all right," Spike says. "Buffy's come a long way."

 

 

"You heard what the doc said." Faith elbows Spike. "He's been loaded up with prophylactics."

 

 

"Okay," Buffy says, "there's a vibe here that I'm just not clued into. One of you want to fill me in?"

 

 

"Spike?" Faith says sweetly. "Why don't you go first?"

 

 

"Faith's worried now that you're here I'm going to be forgetting a commitment I made." Not that he's made it aloud, or even thought of it as a commitment until this moment.

 

 

"A commit-- Wait, you and Faith?"

 

 

"No. It's Xander. We've been--" _Oh, balls. No time for Victorian euphemisms._ "We're lovers."

 

 

***

 

 

Buffy blinks. "Right. Which totally explains Xander's three-year liplock with Anya. And you and Drusilla, and you and Harmony, not to mention you and me. Did Faith put you up to this? Pretty good for the spur of the moment, considering you didn't know I'd be coming."

 

 

"Buffy," he says gently.

 

 

"Point One: You're straight," she protests. "I'd say you're the epitome of straight."

 

 

"Actually, I think that was Riley," he tells her. "I'm the epitome of neither, really."

 

 

"Point Two: You and Xander don't even _like_ each other. You two would be like the Kramdens -- I'm not saying who's Ralph and who's Alice."

 

 

Spike can't suppress a smile at the image.

 

 

"Aha. You're grinning. You've never been much of a poker player. Which raises the inevitable question, have you already found all the pawnshops in town that pay in kittens?"

 

 

"Sworn off the kitten poker, pet." He takes her hand, but doesn't speak for a moment. Last thing in this world he wants to do is add to Buffy's pain. "Slayer."

 

 

She meets his gaze, and takes in his seriousness. "Go ahead, I'm listening."

 

 

"We've both changed. Him most of all. I'm sure you would've heard if you hadn't been away. He ran into some trouble in Africa. Swept away all his defenses, left him barely hanging on to a thread of himself."

 

 

"I'm not sure what you're saying."

 

 

"You remember what I was like after I got the soul and the First was treating me like its personal cat toy. I'm saying I looked like the poster boy for mental health next to him. Like Glory's loonies--" He gives his head a shake. "No, that's not right. He was raving like one of them, but he was quicker, sharper. Kept us all on our toes, trying to keep up with him. He'd hate you knowing this, so I'm just sketching it out for you, yeah?"

 

 

"Is he okay now?"

 

 

"He's right as rain." Spike casts a glance in the direction of the exit. "Well, normal rain, not evil, potentially apocalyptic rain. But he's not completely back to the Xander you remember. He goes for days sometimes without speaking. He's-- He's trying to find himself, I think. Thing is, he's all there -- he just doesn't trust that yet."

 

 

"Okay, how do we get from there to _Hey, we're having sex now_? Because what it sounds like to me--" Suddenly there are tears glittering in her eyes, and her voice chokes off. "What it reminds me--" She tugs her hand from his grasp.

 

 

He makes the leap right along with her. _Christ._ How could he have failed to see it from her point of view?

 

 

"You like 'em damaged, don't you?"

 

 

Though he expected it, this rocks him back like a physical blow.

 

 

"God, Spike."

 

 

"Whoa whoa whoa," Faith says. Spike had all but forgotten she was there. "You thinking he's taking advantage of Xander? Drawing him into where he's out of his depth?"

 

 

"I -- I don't know what I think."

 

 

"I've got well developed alarm bells, B. This doesn't even begin to trip 'em. We've all been living together, trying to get the agency going. They've had time -- since business is for shit -- to find common ground. To sweep away the bullshit. We all have."

 

 

Spike attempts a joke. "Faith's become a real mother hen where it comes to Xander. She'll peck my eyes out if I do him wrong."

 

 

"I am watching, B. This thing is making Xander stronger, not weaker."

 

 

Buffy looks down at her hands. Spike wishes she felt he'd done the same for her, back when she still felt the chill of the grave in her soul.

 

 

"It's a lot to take in," Buffy says at last. "Starting with you being here instead of at the bottom of the world's largest sinkhole."

 

 

"I've had a bit more time to get used to it all," Spike agrees.

 

 

"So I'll give it some time too."

 

 

***

 

 

Once Faith's satisfied herself that Spike's not going to scarper with Buffy, she offers to make a coffee run, and Buffy gratefully accepts.

 

 

"Gonna cross the street and have a smoke while I'm at it, so don't worry if I'm a few minutes."

 

 

"_Now_ she gives us a bit of privacy," Spike says once she's gone.

 

 

"You're not kidding about the mother hen thing when it comes to Xander," Buffy says. "Takes a little getting used to."

 

 

"Mother pterodactyl, more like. Not that I'm fool enough to say that in her hearing."

 

 

"It's funny," Buffy says, but her manner says the exact opposite. "I go away and expect time to stop. It hasn't even been a year, but so much has changed."

 

 

"I know, pet. Wasn't the way I'd have broken the news, given a choice."

 

 

She fidgets with a silver ring on her pointer finger. "I realize that. I haven't exactly been encased in amber myself. I've, y'know, I've gone out."

 

 

"I'm glad. Take advantage of not being the one girl in all the world."

 

 

"Well. Life's still a little slayer-centric. But I get weekends and holidays and four personal days a year!"

 

 

Spike smiles. "Tell me about your life now. Heard you're living in Rome."

 

 

"Mostly teaching the baby slayers, with the occasional trip to look for more. Even doing normal things -- well, normal for girls who know about the Watcher's Council -- it's exciting being there. The noise and bustle and zippy little scooters. Dawn and I have a place. She's going to school there."

 

 

"How is the niblet?"

 

 

"_Ragazzo_-crazy. Italian boys are cuter to the power of ten, as far as she's concerned."

 

 

"She happy?"

 

 

"She is. She talks about you now and again. I think she misses you."

 

 

"She's forgiven me, then."

 

 

"Well, you did kind of go out on a grand gesture. She's not made of stone, you know. Though she's going to be _really_ pissed that you've been back all this time and didn't let anyone know."

 

_Giles knew_, he wants to say, but it'll only cause hard feelings. _And Red._ Must have discussed it, decided he was a distraction, a bad influence. Spike's not sure they're wrong. "Tell her we'll come for a visit, Xander and I. Sometime after this latest apocalypse is sorted."

 

 

"Might be a while before they let him fly," Buffy says. "Pressure changes."

 

 

"Oh. Dunno. Never been in one of those things, m'self."

 

 

"But I thought you'd gone--" She glances up as someone approaches.

 

 

It's the nurse who's acted as the Harris family guide. "I wanted to let you know. Your brother's been settled into his room. He's in the process of waking up, but he's mostly still sleeping. He can have a brief visit. If you keep it short and quiet, I'll let you both in. Five minutes."

 

 

"Brilliant." Spike gets to his feet. "Lead the way."

 

 

***

 

 

Buffy hangs back as they enter the dimly lit room. There's a second bed, but Spike's glad to see that it's currently unoccupied. A light shines directly over Xander's bed, definitely not made to flatter, but even so, he looks quite pale. The sound of his breathing is on its way back to normal, and Spike feels something in his own chest relax.

 

 

Spike hears a quick hiss of Buffy's indrawn breath. "When did he get--" She cuts it off as Xander's eyes flutter open. The head of his bed is cranked so he's mostly sitting up. Spike steps closer and takes his hand.

 

 

"What did I tell you?" Xander rasps.

 

 

"Shh. You rest now, love."

 

 

"Pizza guy? He gets tips. Prophecy guy? Tips are a little pointier."

 

 

"Doc says you'll be right as rain in no time."

 

 

He drifts a bit, like a radio signal that's too distant to hold. "You spilled your lunch. Your shirt."

 

 

"That's not lunch, you git," Spike says gently. "That's you."

 

 

"Sorry," he says. "Like that shirt on you." A little more of the fog burns off, and he spots Buffy. "Hey. Buff. Did you come to see Angel?"

 

 

"No, silly." She's fighting some emotion Spike can't read. "I'm here for you."

 

 

"But I'm not a puppet." His eyes start losing focus. "Not to be missed, I'm tel--" And then he's asleep again.

 

 

"Jesus, Spike," Buffy whispers. "What else aren't you telling me?"

 

 

He's confused for a moment until he remembers that the last time she saw him, Xander was still recovering from the loss of his eye.

 

 

"Did Willow--?"

 

 

Spike shakes his head sharply. "Tell you out there. I'll join you in a minute."

 

 

Buffy shoves back her anger and shock, nodding once, then quietly stealing out the door.

 

 

"Be back in a bit, pet," Spike says softly. "You call the nurse if the pain's too bad, yeah?" No response. He hadn't expected one. He watches Xander sleep, stroking the skin of his forearm by the IV tube. "Sleep now."

 

 

He turns and makes for the door when Xander mutters, "He's gonna raise them. Take his army men out of the shoebox."

 

 

The skin prickles at the back of Spike's neck. He turns and swiftly crosses to Xander's side, but doesn't touch him for fear of dispelling the vision.

 

 

"They don't need guns, but they've got one. All blue-black and shiny."

 

 

"Who? Who's going to raise them?"

 

 

"Not the Qwa'ha Xahn. The other little fuck. Shoulda killed him, y'know?"

 

 

"Who? McDonald?"

 

 

"E-I-E-I-O."

 

 

He hasn't opened his eyes this whole time. Spike's not even sure if he's actually awake.

 

 

"Anything else you can tell me?"

 

 

"Send in the nurse, willya? Head's killing me."

 

 

Buffy startles when Spike bursts through the door into the hallway.

 

 

"Come with me, pet. We've got to find a signal and call Giles an' Wes. The apocalypse is afoot."

 

 

***

 

 

The anger Buffy had shoved aside makes a reappearance as Spike strides past her and she scrambles to catch up. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on?"

 

 

"Like I said, apocalypse." He catches a nurse walking by and passes on Xander's request for more pain meds.

 

 

"Apocalypse," Buffy repeats. "What, did the heart monitor suddenly start spelling out prophecies in spiky little letters?"

 

 

"Xander had a vision." He punches the elevator button.

 

 

"Of course he did. He saw it with his brand new shiny eye, which nobody thought to tell me about in the course of the Xander update."

 

 

"No, we didn't think. We're used to it now. Which sounds--"

 

 

"Lame." The doors slide open and they step onto the elevator, Buffy steaming ahead without noticing the other passengers. "It's real, isn't it? I mean -- Dawn did a lot of research, and she says they can make them look really natural, but that's not a fake, is it?"

 

 

Spike shakes his head tightly, trying to convey _Not here_, but Buffy takes it as confirmation. "So where'd he get it?"

 

 

The elevator stops at the next floor. Every light, Spike notices, is lit up. The passengers shuffle as some exit, others step on.

 

 

"Trouble I mentioned before, in Africa," he says in a low voice. "Call it the toy surprise."

 

 

"Jesus, Spike. Are you telling me he went looking for it? That _that's_ what caused the craziness, the whole--"

 

 

"_No._ Can't believe you'd think that of him. Are you really that out of touch?"

 

 

"Well, I guess so, because of the lack of people telling me what's going on."

 

 

The elevator makes another stop, and again there's the shuffle of occupants.

 

 

"He never asked for it. Didn't want it. It was a side effect."

 

 

"Do you know what it would take to _do_ that?"

 

 

Spike's own blood begins to boil, but at the same time, some part of him is relieved that she's stopped being so bleeding civilized about everything. "I was there, yeah? Damn right I know what could do that. I saw it try an' manifest, fought it, damn near was sta-- killed by it."

 

 

The other passengers still resolutely gaze elsewhere. When the elevator arrives at the ground floor it expels them all in a rush, like a gusty sigh of relief.

 

 

"Slayer," he says softly as they step off. "I know you're brassed off. You have a right to be. Once I give the latest oracle-gram to Giles and Wes, we'll find someplace private to talk, and I'll tell you everything."

 

 

"Yeah, sure."

 

 

When they reach the exact distance from the hospital where smoking becomes allowable, Spike turns up his collar against the rain and lights up a fag. He fumbles with Xander's cell to try Giles first. Spike feels vaguely disloyal choosing him over Wes, but he tells himself he's got access to whatever's left of the Council's library, and his bevy of witches.

 

 

Faith crushes her own cigarette underfoot and joins them. "You'd think they could build a fuckin' shelter."

 

 

"This is Southern California," Buffy reminds her. "We're not supposed to _need_ a shelter."

 

 

"Sorry about the coffee. I can go now."

 

 

"After Spike talks to Giles is fine," Buffy says.

 

 

"We had a few minutes with Xander," Spike tells Faith. "He had another vision."

 

 

"He doesn't get a break for being goddamn impaled?"

 

 

Before he can respond, Giles is on the line, and Spike lays out the situation as quickly as he can. "He used that phrase again. I caught it this time -- sounded like Qua-ha-zhaan."

 

 

"Oh dear."

 

 

"Not our favorite combination of words here, Rupert."

 

 

"The Qwa'ha Xahn was a priest of the ancient gods, in the time before demons yielded the earth to humans."

 

 

"_Bugger_ these old gods. Always trying to muscle their way back into the world."

 

 

"It does sound as though we have another."

 

 

"Like soddin' cockroaches, they are. At least hyena-girl didn't have an army."

 

 

"That is a troubling piece of the puzzle. What do you know of the man Xander says is trying to raise them?"

 

 

Spike directs a stream of smoke toward the iron-gray sky. "Longtime enemy of Angel's. Who isn't, really? Associated with Wolfram &amp; Hart, but he took off a few years ago. Nobody heard anything more of him until recently." He fills Giles in on the case they were working with Connor. Buffy shoots another blazing glare in Spike's direction, and he covers the cellphone with his fingertips. "Not my fault, pet. Talk to Angel about that one." He gets back to Giles. "Second time Xander's mentioned guns, too. Though this time he said the army won't need 'em, but they have them. No, they have one."

 

 

"Fuck!" Faith yelps. "Gun!"

 

 

A couple of bystanding smokers scatter for cover.

 

 

"Don't you get it?" she says urgently. "Not _a_ gun. _Gunn._ What if he means Charles?"

 

 

"_All blue-black and shiny._"

 

 

"He said that? Fuck!" She pulls out her own cell and punches in the number for directory assistance.

 

 

"What's she talking about?" Buffy asks.

 

 

"Charles Gunn," Spike says, to her and into the phone. "He's been in Angel's little gang of do-gooders for years."

 

 

Faith splutters a string of cursewords as she runs into a brick wall of Harmony, and violently snaps her phone shut. "He's in a meeting. I'm going over there."

 

 

"Yeah, cause what we need is to have _you_ ventilated as well."

 

 

"This vision," Faith says. "Whatever's going down, it's aimed at Charles."

 

 

***

 

 

"Get you that coffee next time," Faith promises.

 

 

"Wait," Buffy says. "You're headed for Wolfram &amp; Hart?"

 

 

"Damn straight."

 

 

"Then I'm coming with. Xander said I should see Angel. For all I know, that was part of the vision, too."

 

 

"Plus there's the puppet thing." Faith dimples. "Not to be missed. We'll check in with you later, Spike. You've got Xander's phone, right?"

 

 

"Right, but Angel's already made it clear--"

 

 

"Oh please. Like he's turning Buffy away. Catch you later."

 

 

"_Don't_ get skewered." She pays him as much heed as she normally does, and Spike returns to his conversation with Giles, then dials Wes once that's finished.

 

 

"Is there any news about Xander?" Wes asks first.

 

 

"He's patched up and settled into a room," Spike tells him. "Nicely drugged, but that didn't stop him from having a vision."

 

 

"The prognosis is good, then?" Spike hears a relieved breath whisper over the line. "What did he see? Anything that sheds more light on the last vision?"

 

 

"Armies. McDonald, apparently, is trying to raise some ancient army belonging to one of the old gods. There's a priest, too, which isn't McDonald, but we don't know who that is. The --" He rubs the skin between his brows. "Christ, what? The Qwa'ha Xahn. Gunn may be involved somehow."

 

 

"This was quite a specific vision -- uncommonly so. The effects of morphine, perhaps?"

 

 

Here's where he has to tread delicately. "Ah. Well. The usual cryptic mumbo-jumbo, we just had some flashes of insight."

 

 

"So now we strategize."

 

 

Spike rubs harder at his forehead. "Faith an' Buffy are on their way to Charlie -- to warn him or thrash him, whatever seems needed."

 

 

"Buffy?"

 

 

"Right." He's got a problem with remembering to pass on important bits of information, Buffy's right on that score. "Xander was on the phone with Buffy in Italy when he was shot. She thought he might be dying, so she got Willow to teleport her here."

 

 

"It could be useful, having another slayer here if we are facing an apocalypse."

 

 

"I'd say she's your Apocalypse Rooter specialist. Most experienced in the field. An' Giles, who's looking into some burial ground of the gods who are ancient even to the ancient ones. Seems it's right in his neighborhood."

 

 

"Ah. Giles," Wes says softly. "He believes the answer lies in the Deeper Well?"

 

 

"It's the warehouse of dead gods, innit? Speaking of teleporting, Red's on her way here. Need her help with a spell that'll tell me when that twat McDonald comes back within mischief range, and another to find whoever's behind the crossbow attack -- our priest, I'm thinking. Maybe a little hacking into city schematics as well, see if we can find where this army might be hidden."

 

 

There's a brief pause on Wesley's end. "Is there anything I can do?"

 

 

"Get Annie here, if she can make it. Hate to think of Xander waking up alone."

 

 

"Of course. I'll send her right away."

 

 

"One more thing," Spike says. "Need you to find out what's involved in raising this army. Needless to say, I also need you to find out how the hell we stop it."

 

 

Spike snaps his phone shut and starts on his own assignment. He's got a crossbow bolt to retrieve, in hopes it will lead Red to the Old Sod's priest.

 

 

***

 

 

Back a lifetime ago, William spent many a Sunday next to his mum, listening to the vicar rambling on about on the loving nature of God. Even His punishments were the acts of a loving Father, His guiding hand meant to nudge his children toward the right.

 

 

Not even William fell for that bit of propaganda, preferring life without a Father who'd roast his sons and daughters for disobeying. He believed in God, but one who was far more indifferent.

 

 

Again Spike contemplates the lack of a caring God, as he sets out on foot in the rain to steal evidence from the peelers -- while Faith gets to watch Buffy confront Angel the puppet. Actually, even better than that is the thought of Angel, mortified at his precious Buffy witnessing his humiliation. Almost better than sex, that scene.

 

 

Easier to think of than Xander, lying in the hospital with the tubes in his chest the only things allowing him to breathe. Easier than envisioning pretty wee Fred struck down, head severed from her shoulders. And Charlie -- is he enemy or victim?

 

 

He'd give a lot for a reflection when he makes it to the police station, hoping he looks young and forlorn enough to gain a little sympathy. He jams his hands in his pockets and hunches his shoulders in a way he knows makes him look skinny and malnourished (equally useful when stalking the motherly or the predatory). He pulls a creased and dampened card from his pocket and asks for the detective who gave it to him.

 

 

The desk sergeant grills him briefly, then picks up the phone and announces the brother of the crossbow victim is here.

 

 

Another plod escorts him back into a big room crowded with desks. Lt. Hamlin eyes his dripping hair and clothes for a moment, then gestures him into the chair by his desk. "How's your brother?"

 

 

"Out of surgery. Not quite sure yet if he's out of danger. He's, um --" Spike takes a shuddering breath -- "he's got these tubes sticking out of his chest." He makes a display of manful suppression of strong feeling -- a long-forgotten talent fostered by the era he'd lived in. "Sorry."

 

 

"It's all right," the lieutenant says. "It's a tough time."

 

 

"Do you have any leads on who did this?"

 

 

"I'm telling you, this is a tough one." He opens a file folder on his desk, just to show they're working on it. The bloodied crossbow bolt is zipped into a plastic evidence bag atop a couple of sheets of paper. "This rain we've been having, it's washed away pretty much any evidence there might have been. Can't tell exactly where our sniper was, because of course we didn't see your brother on the scene. We looked over the likeliest places that afforded the sniper some cover, and found nothing. There haven't been other attacks of this nature -- which I'm glad of, don't get me wrong -- but there's no established pattern to help us make assumptions. We're giving it our best shot, but it's tough," he says again, flipping the folder closed.

 

 

"Tough, yeah," Spike repeats, hunching his shoulders even more. "It's just Xander's the one who held the family together, you know? After Dad and Mum --" _Balls!_ Yanks say _Mom_, not _Mum_. Spike begins blubbering earlier than planned to cover the slip.

 

 

"Oh, hey now," the lieutenant says. "Can I get you some water? Tea or something?"

 

 

"Tea. That'd be good."

 

 

The detective quickly removes himself from the scene, and Spike pours on a little extra unmanly emotion, glancing around furtively to see its effect. Just as men did in William's day, the coppers at the other desks have elsewhere to look, important business to attend to. Spike slides his hand toward the folder on Hamlin's desk, teasing the evidence bag out of the file and stashing it in his pocket.

 

 

Sobbing louder, he jumps to his feet, the wooden chair screeching as it scoots along the floor. "Fuck!" he says to the room. "I'm sorry." He dashes through the station's busy lobby and out into the rain.

 

 

He pauses at the street corner as cross traffic flows by, and touches the outside of his jacket, feeling the bolt tucked safely in the inside pocket. "You'd better fucking appreciate this, Harris."

 

 

***

 

 

Spike darts through traffic, raising a ruckus of outraged horn-blowing. He dodges all the black SUVs (marketed to the rugged individualist) without incident, only to crash into some bird on the other curb, who seemingly came from nowhere.

 

 

Make that _did_ come from nowhere. The bird is Red, her dry hair and clothes distinguishing her from the drowned-rat population around her. "You're a hard guy to get a bead on," she says.

 

 

"Got errands, don't I?"

 

 

"You got the crossbow bolt?"

 

 

"Yeah. Where to?"

 

 

"Much as I'd love to see him first, we'd better do this. I need some space to cast a circle."

 

 

Spike nods. "Back at headquarters. Conjure us a cab, Red?"

 

 

Once they're settled in a taxi, Willow asks, "How is he?"

 

 

"Coming round after the surgery. Groggy still, when I saw him. They put tubes in his chest to help the lung re-inflate." Apparently the ache in his own chest when relaying this information is not entirely due to great acting.

 

 

"How has he _been_?" In answer to Spike's confused look, she adds, "Compared to when I last saw him."

 

 

"Better. Struggles now and again, but that's _because_ he's getting better."

 

 

"The decision to stay away from his friends, do you think that was good for him?"

 

 

Spike snorts a brief laugh. "Didn't turn out like he expected, did it?"

 

 

"How's that?"

 

 

"Turns out he's with his friends here, too."

 

 

***

 

 

The back of the cab is like a cocoon, the hiss of rain on the streets muffling everything else, the streaks of rain reflecting lights of red yellow and green. Spike watches as Willow does a mental inventory of the crew she left Xander with, and gives him a dubious look.

 

 

"You'd be amazed what a small boat and forty days and nights of rain will do, Red."

 

 

"A lot of things surprise me," she says in a tone that indicates hearing Spike getting biblical is on the list.

 

 

"Buffy had a right bitch of a time getting up to speed on everything that's happened, considering she didn't even know about me. I expect Rupert's had the time to give you more of the story?"

 

 

"I tried to tell her. About you."

 

 

Spike nods. "She told me. She was so worried about Xander she wouldn't let you."

 

 

"I can't believe you never let her know you're alive way before this."

 

 

Spike can't believe she believes it's her business, but he says, "Not exactly, though, am I? She has a chance to open her life up to the world, have any man she fancies. And funny how I'm in for the blame, even when she's been off in the wilds of Indonesia the last few months, where none of you lot could reach her."

 

 

"It's not that I -- it's just unlike you."

 

 

"You'd be surprised what being dead -- that's extra crispy dead, with the eleven secret herbs and spices -- will do to rearrange your priorities. You never answered. What's the watcher told you about the current situation?"

 

 

The rain picks up, hammering at the roof of the taxi. The driver puts the windscreen wipers on full speed.

 

 

"He said Xander's been having visions."

 

 

"That's true. He had one just now, in his hospital room."

 

 

"And that Cordelia was the one who gave them to him. Just before she died."

 

 

"Not precisely, but close. She was already gone when she came to us, we heard later. She was all bright and sassy -- better than she'd looked in her coma, by a long shot."

 

 

"Wow. Visions. Xander. That's hard to take in."

 

 

Spike longs for a cigarette, but he settles for a small explosion. "You've known him the longest, an' you underestimate him the most. She came to us especially to find him. Wasn't an accident, Red. She meant for Xander to have them, because she knew she could trust him with them."

 

 

The gaze Red turns on him is so sharply focused Spike feels like an ant under a schoolboy's magnifying glass. He hopes he doesn't burst into flame. "One more thing you should -- well, actually, you have no bleedin' business knowing it, but if Buffy doesn't tell you, Faith sodding well will -- Xander and I --" Damned if he knows why, but he finds himself searching for a euphemism, when with Buffy he said it right out.

 

 

"You've transferred it to him. The obsession you had with Buffy -- you just shifted it elsewhere. Though I'm surprised at--"

 

 

"Oh, _fuck me!_ Stop the soddin' cab!"

 

 

The driver pulls to the curb.

 

 

"I'm walking the rest of the way. _Bollocks!_"

 

 

"_Spike --_"

 

 

"You're just two blocks away. You can't miss it." He slams the cab door and stalks off in the rain.

 

 

***

 

 

The two-block walk gives Spike ample opportunity to cool off, in more ways than one. He slows his pace as he rounds the corner and sees AAAAA Seraphim's weatherbeaten front door. With the rain these last weeks, Xander hasn't gotten it freshly painted as he'd planned. Its patchy, chipped paint looks even sadder in the gloom.

 

 

He remembers the conversation they had out here when things were just starting to shift between the two of them. The Noah story again. Spike's comment about any Victorian gentleman worth his salt knowing the Good Book cover to cover. Xander breaking his silence to say he'd pay serious money to see William in his glory.

 

 

Spike suspects Xander's been seeing a lot more of him than he knows. He'll have more, if he wants it. Anything, if it makes him easier with the visions, puts him at rest about the person Xander's afraid he might become.

 

 

He lets himself into the house, finding first the clutter of books and notes Wes has set aside, then Wes himself, helping Willow set up the things she needs for her spell.

 

 

"Need a hand wi' anything?" he asks mildly, as if he hasn't just stormed off in a right snit.

 

 

"Just the bolt. The spell itself just requires one person," Wes says. Glancing up, he sees Spike's bedraggled state. "If this keeps up, I believe we'll have to lay in a bigger supply of towels and blankets."

 

 

"If you run across any spells for stopping this, I wouldn't complain." He hands the evidence bag to Willow, then jerks his head in the direction of the stairs. "Be just a tick, then I'll be right down."

 

 

He peels out of his wet clothes, draping them over the shower railing in the shared bathroom. He overcomes the temptation to stand for a time under the hot spray, anything to warm his skin, and dries off and dresses instead.

 

 

On his way to the stairs, Spike takes a quick look in Xander's room, which they'd left with door ajar. Best place for Red to stay for the duration, he supposes.

 

 

He spots a dark lump on the nightstand and approaches to see what it is. One of Xander's little carvings he worked on when there wasn't a household disaster that required his carpentry skills. This one set aside partially completed, an African elephant, huge ears, trunk and tusks emerging from the block of wood along with one stumpy leg striding forward. Somehow Xander has captured its _elephantness_ so fully that it doesn't seem so much a half-finished carving as a rendering of the beast mid-transformation. It seems a metaphor for Xander's struggle to remake himself again after the goddess swept him away so completely. Or perhaps for Spike, letting parts of himself emerge that had been buried since he was turned.

 

 

He rubs his thumb over the elephant's trunk, then slips it into his pocket, closing Xander's door behind him as he steps into the hallway.

 

 

***

 

 

When Spike returns downstairs, he finds the living room where Red's set up her spell is already stinking of burning sage. It's an odor he's always loathed, though he's not sure if it's just because of its nose-twitching burnt quality, or it's a standard evil undead reaction, like the garlic. Witch like Red, he supposes, would find it necessary as Xander finds his hammer.

 

 

He sticks by the hall entryway, grateful for the perpetual draft there. It's not just the smoky stink he's glad to be away from, but the power that surges off Willow. She pulled off the big mojo she'd been attempting the day Spike died (again), and that's lent her confidence where once she ran on arrogance. Red's never been his type (except to eat, back in the days when he was killing humans), but the beauty that shines through her as she calls on her power is undeniable.

 

 

She chants and makes the required gestures and channels the ancient power flowing through her, and Spike finds himself thinking about how long it's been since he last ate. Nothing personal against Red; those long Sundays sitting next to his mum prompted the same longings in William, thinking about the roast the girl had been preparing since morning.

 

 

He's had blood on his shirt since they left Wolfram &amp; Hart, but none in his belly since yesterday. Briefly he considers quietly withdrawing and finding something to eat, a notion that was completely outside the realm of the possible for William. Red has Wes right here, in case she--

 

 

Whatever's flowing through Willow leaves her abruptly, and she takes a quick, staggering step back. Wes is at her side immediately, steadying her.

 

 

"The fortress of gold," she murmurs, then she shakes off her vagueness. "Not _of_ gold, but where the gold is kept. Except the priest is not the guardian of gold, but of an ancient god, back when the earth was walked by demons pure."

 

 

Not exactly news, Spike thinks.

 

 

"Illyria." She presses a hand to her chest. "So much power once, in its name. Demons used to tremble at the very sound. A great warrior god, with a vast army at its command."

 

 

A name, at least. Now we're getting somewhere. "Xander says the army's gonna be raised. Did you get anything about where they are, how to stop them?"

 

 

She shakes her head.

 

 

"What about the priest?" Wes asks.

 

 

"Nothing that makes sense. The fortress of gold. The only thing that remotely comes to me is Fort -- aah, what is it? Fort Knox."

 

 

Spike and Wes exchange a look. _Knox._

 

 

It makes all kinds of sense.

 

 

***

 

 

"Knox," Wes repeats.

 

 

"Knew there was something about that smug little ponce," Spike says.

 

 

"You know him?" Willow asks.

 

 

Wes nods. "He works in the Wolfram &amp; Hart science department with Fred. You remember her?"

 

 

"Of course I do."

 

 

"He was nearby when Xander was struck with the vision at Wolfram &amp; Hart," Spike says. "Fred took notes of what he said, an' then we left her office to go talk with Angel. That little git would have had no trouble walking into her office and having a look at her notes. He was my number one suspect for the crossbow attack all along."

 

 

"Of course he'd want to do away with a visionary who could see Illyria coming," Wes said.

 

 

"Do you know anything about this Illyria?" Willow asks.

 

 

"Not specifically, not yet. If anything's been recorded on it, I'll find it. I wish I still--" Wes gives his head a shake. "Perhaps we should see what Giles can find, as well. I'm certain there are references we don't share in common."

 

 

"Should get you two listing everything you've each got," Spike says, "when we get this apocalypse sorted. Though right now, Giles is sniffing round this ancient burial grounds."

 

 

"Ah. Yes, that's right."

 

 

"Not a bad thing to remember, when you're feeling arrogant," he says, more for Red's benefit than Wesley's. "The fact that there's a graveyard for old gods who made the demons tremble, an' to hear Rupert tell it, it's bursting at the seams."

 

 

"I'll get started right away," Wes says.

 

 

"Can I help?" Willow asks.

 

 

"Actually, I've a use for you," Spike says. "We've got another enemy we need to keep track of. From the sound of things, he's in this, or is going to stumble into it. Xander says he's going to raise Illyria's army."

 

 

"Just guessing here," Red says, "but I think maybe we'd rather stop both this guy and the priest _before_ whatever they work whatever mojo they have planned."

 

 

"Can we kill 'em both?" Spike asks hopefully.

 

 

Wes favors him with a grim smile. "It would make things rather simpler, wouldn't it? On the surface, at least."

 

 

"They're both human?" Willow asks.

 

 

"Quite."

 

 

"There's always self-defense," Spike says cheerfully.

 

 

"Right. I'll be with the books."

 

 

Spike sets about helping Red clear away the remnants of the first spell.

 

 

***

 

 

He stays to help with the second spell, but when Willow sits down with the computer to hack into city schematics, Spike takes a break for a long-delayed meal. As he warms the blood in the microwave, he supposes he should have asked Willow if she's hungry. If Annie were here, she'd be making her a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.

 

 

He prefers her where she is now, standing by Xander. He wishes he were there as well, instead of waiting here for the last piece of the puzzle. Sometimes this man of action shite isn't all it's cracked up to be.

 

 

The microwave beeps, and Spike takes his mug to the back door, looking out at the courtyard. _Raining like a cow pissin' on a flat rock_, Angelus used to say, back when the Irish accent was still thick.

 

 

He wonders how Buffy is faring with Angel and his unstable puppet emotions. Wonders if Faith is with her, still trying to get back her stolen memories, to get them back for everyone. Speaking as someone with 150 years worth of memories, he's not sure that's the best idea, especially for Wes. He's convinced he wants them back too, but if Lorne thinks they're poison, Spike's willing to take his word for it. They need Wes more than Wes needs his memories, but it doesn't seem like there's a damn thing Spike has to say about it.

 

 

He shakes off these thoughts, lets Xander in instead. Standing out here in the dark, arms and face raised to the rain, talking about Africa's night sky. Seizing Spike by the scruff of the neck for their first kiss. And the one that comes unbidden: Xander crouched out here naked, flashing back to his goddess, as Faith talks him down.

 

 

Spike finishes the mug of blood. Man (vamp) of action, yeah. He'll fight the apocalypse, but he'll bloody well fight for Xander, too. Washing out the mug, he makes his choice. If he's going to sit around waiting for the next bit of action, he can do that at the hospital just as easily as here.

 

 

He's about to tell Wes and Red where he's going when Xander's phone twitters "Free Bird."

 

 

It's Giles.

 

 

***

 

 

"'Free Bird'? Why are you 'Free Bird'?"

 

 

"What? Spike?"

 

 

"Yeah, yeah. Never mind. What did you find?"

 

 

"I spoke with the guardian of the Deeper Well. One of his charges is in fact missing."

 

 

"Illyria."

 

 

"How did you know?"

 

 

"Wes has been cracking the books," Spike says. Not a lie, exactly. He's not sure why he gives Wes the credit over Red. He suspects Giles gives her plenty of credit as it is. "Don't know much more than that yet -- warrior god, demons tremble at its name -- your standard two-line _Who's Who in Gods of the Demon Realm_ bio. Got anything more than that?"

 

 

"The details have apparently been lost to time. But Drogyn -- the keeper of the well, was able to tell me what would happen if Illyria were loosed."

 

 

"I'm listening."

 

 

"If it infects a host, the person will die in unspeakable agony. The host's skin becomes a hard shell, as his or her organs liquify to create space for the god, who then inhabits the body. The soul of its victim is obliterated."

 

 

"An exoskeleton," Spike murmurs.

 

 

"Something like that, yes. Have you seen--"

 

 

"No no," Spike assures him. "Xander described it that way after his vision. How do we stop this thing? What's containing it now?"

 

 

"It's encased in a sarcophagus. The entire thing, apparently, was teleported from the Deeper Well. Drogyn says its disappearance and Illyria's rising are written in the prophecies."

 

 

Spike's fingers twitch with the desire for a smoke. "Oh, bugger prophecy."

 

 

"Yes, well," Giles says drily.

 

 

"So can we destroy the sarcophagus before it gets out? Trot out the living flame, or the Acme Sarcophagus Destruct-o Kit?"

 

 

A sigh crackles over the line. "They're built to hold gods."

 

 

"Well, so was the Deeper Well. It didn't work too soddin' well, did it?" He takes out his lighter, flicks the top open and closed. "We found its priest. The Kwa-ha-whatsit. Not that we have him at the moment, but we know who he is. One of the happy denizens of Wolfram &amp; Hart. Can we kill the little bastard? Will that work?"

 

 

"Human?"

 

 

Spike heaves a sigh. "Evil," he says pointedly. "I'm beginning to find this a bit speciesist. Feel free to hack away at the demons without giving it a second thought, but if they're human, even if they grind up the bones of babies and sprinkle 'em on their Weetabix, it's all _Well, is there another way?_ We are talking apocalypse, you remember."

 

 

"Do what you must," Giles says reluctantly. "But be certain that you must."

 

 

"I'll try not to err on the side of letting the world end, yeah?"

 

 

Giles's voice softens. "How is Xander?"

 

 

"Haven't seen him since we last spoke. I was just getting ready to go back. He's strong. And stubborn. He'll be all right."

 

 

"Yes. Please tell him I asked after him."

 

 

"I'll do that, yeah." Spike snaps the phone shut, thinking on what Giles had said. Unspeakable agony. Who had that little ponce planned that for? According to Xander's vision, he'd meant someone in particular to be Illyria's vessel. Why does Spike keep thinking it's Fred?

 

_Unspeakable agony. Liquified._

 

 

Sweet, wee Fred, who fought for Spike when he couldn't fight for himself.

 

 

He doubts he'd have much chance surprising Knox at Wolfram &amp; Hart, what with the psychic and supernatural early warning systems in place there. What Spike needs is a way to flush him out, get him someplace where he doesn't have the advantage.

 

 

Spike can think of one sure way to lure him out.

 

 

"Wes." Wesley's completely engrossed in the books and scrolls that surround him. Spike has to repeat his name.

 

 

"Yes, what is it?"

 

 

"Do you have Fred's cell number?"

 

 

***

 

 

It's all set up, but it doesn't take place for a couple of hours, so Spike stops by the hospital.

 

 

They've let Annie take up residence in a chair by Xander's bedside, which Spike takes as a good sign. He's sleeping, his lashes dark smudges on his pale face. Annie knits away at his side, quick graceful hands flitting.

 

 

"Didn't know you knit," Spike says softly.

 

 

"I rarely have the time. My yearly output is usually three socks."

 

 

"How is he?"

 

 

"In and out. Pretty uncomfortable yet -- he's been hitting the pain meds when he's awake." She starts to rise from her chair. "I'll give you some privacy."

 

 

"Stay, pet. Unless you need a break." Moving to Xander's side, Spike takes his hand, stroking his thumb over the rough places on his palm. "I'm here, love."

 

 

It takes the words a while to penetrate. "Hey," Xander murmurs after several minutes. "How's the 'pocalypse? Pocky Lips, heh. Will and I used to love that."

 

 

"We're closing in. We've found our god and its priest, and we've set a trap for him. In a couple of hours we'll have him."

 

 

"All sewn up, huh?" Xander laughs, then hits his morphine button. He's drifting. "Hardcore, that guy. Carries his god inside. Do you have Jesus in your heart? No, but I got 'Llyria next to my liver. Annie's gonna knit me a scarf." He pats Spike's hand. "You rest now," he mumbles, then he's out again.

 

 

Annie unravels a few stitches, then resumes knitting. "Was that a vision?"

 

 

"Suppose we should take it as one -- the god we're trying to thwart, its name is Illyria. No way for him to know that, unless he was hooked into the Powers That Be, yeah?"

 

 

"'Next to his liver' -- what was that about?"

 

 

"Dunno. Better call Wes, see what he can uncover. Tell Xander I'll try an' be back later on tonight."

 

 

"Be careful," she says. "The guy's hardcore, he said. Stay in one piece. Xander needs you. The agency needs you."

 

 

Spike nods, unable to look at her. "Glad I didn't eat you, back in the day."

 

 

"That makes two of us."

 

 

"Three. I'm fairly certain Wes prefers it this way, too."

 

 

***

 

 

Despite the pissing rain, the vinegary/peppery smell of barbecue sauce reaches even into the outer edges of the car park, like some kind of force field. Fred has chosen the location well: Lucy Lou's, a ramshackle roadhouse of a rib joint, its dark lot crammed with limos, beaters and motorcycles. This is their trap and Fred's the bait, although she's safely tucked away in a hotel at the other edge of the city.

 

 

Gravel crunches beneath the wheels of a new arrival, a dark late-model sedan with sensible gas mileage. (Spike haunted Wolfram &amp; Hart Payroll long enough to know whoring yourself to evil doesn't necessarily pay that well.) The driver's door opens, and Knox emerges, reaching back into the car for a large paper cone. Flowers -- an extravagant bouquet, from the size of it.

 

 

"There's our boy," Spike says to Wes. "Twenty minutes early, our eager suitor."

 

 

"Anxious to meet the family, no doubt," Wes says. That's the story Fred gave Knox -- with the cousins' flight canceled and rebooked for morning, she's taking them out for dinner, and there's nothing she'd love more than to have them meet Knox.

 

 

"Brought some of his own, looks like," Spike adds. There's a pair of hulking ... _somethings_ in the back seat of Knox' car.

 

 

"Not much of a family resemblance," Wes notes as Knox dashes toward the sheltered entrance.

 

 

"Cousins from the demon side," Spike speculates.

 

 

"Plan B, then?"

 

 

Spike glances at Wes. "Do we have a Plan B?"

 

 

"Not as such."

 

 

Spike nods, throwing his smoke out of the window. "Right. You distract Knox, I'll deal with the cousins. Make your approach all casual like, save the quality violence for when I get there."

 

 

"I daresay I can chloroform someone without your help."

 

 

"Up to you, mate." Spike steps out into the slashing rain, flipping up the hood of his black slicker to hide his hair. He marches stiff-legged toward the entrance, fumbling in his pocket for his cigs. He breaks stride as he comes upon Knox's car and raps a knuckle against the glass. "Oi, mates," he says as if there's nothing strange about the two hulking shapes sitting in the back seat. "Give us a light?" He bends toward the window as it lowers, and brings up a can of spray paint, which he turns into a blowtorch with a flick of his lighter. The demons go up like a California wildfire. "Oh, never mind. Found me own." He tosses the can into the car and hurries toward the rib shack. After a few paces there's a muffled _whump!_ and the sound of shattering glass, and a car alarm that absolutely no one inside will pay attention to.

 

 

Best hurry this along, however.

 

 

The rustling of bushes around the side of Lucy Lou's alerts him to where the action is. Spanish music blares from the kitchen, covering the sounds of a struggle. Spike pushes his way through the bushes to find Knox half sprawled as Wes covers his nose and mouth with a chloroform-saturated cloth. His arm thrashes feebly, trying to break free of Wes's grip.

 

 

"Lift his shirt, would you?" Wes asks. "I felt something strange as we were struggling."

 

 

Spike yanks on the shirt as Knox renews his efforts to get loose.

 

 

There beneath the skin are several abnormal-looking lumps behind a jagged scar. "Fond of the DIY surgery, are we?" Spike goes for his knife, flicks it open.

 

 

Knox flails a hand upward into Wes's face and shoves the handkerchief away from his own. "No! No, you can't!" he says feebly.

 

 

Wes quickly gets him under control, and Knox at last sags, unconscious.

 

 

Spike uses the knife point to dig out the bizarre artifacts beneath Knox's skin. Showing them to Wes, he asks, "Seen anything like this?"

 

 

Wes reaches for them, but Spike drops them to the ground, crushes them beneath his heel. "Xander says they've something to do with the god."

 

 

"Spike! Those might have been invaluable to study."

 

 

He shoves the pieces toward Wes with his toe. "One word, mate. Potsherds." He hoists Knox over his shoulders. "Let's dump this imbecile an' get on with things."

 

 

It takes Wes a moment to join him at the car, so Spike presumes he is gathering up the pieces. Spike spends the time rifling Knox's pockets until Wes appears, the big bouquet in hand. "Would it be too tacky to take these to Xander?"

 

 

Before Spike can say anything, Wes lowers his face to the flowers and draws in their scent. "Oh," Wes says vaguely. "So that's--" He crashes to the muddy ground beside the car.

 

 

"Christ," Spike mutters. He bundles Wes into the passenger seat and peels out of the car park.

 

 

***

 

 

Drugged or bewitched, Spike wonders. He glances over at Wes, tilted against the passenger door. Not poisoned, he's certain. The plastic fasteners in Knox's pocket convince him of that. The same glorified bin liner ties the peelers carry when they're expecting mass arrests. So Spike had been right that Fred was the planned host for Knox's god.

 

 

He doesn't feel so bad then about what he does to Knox. Not far from Lucy Lou's he spots a small, rundown motel next to a Carl's Jr., perfect for his purposes. Parking at the far end of the fast food joint's lot, he heaves Knox over his shoulder for a casual stroll to the unoccupied motel room on the end.

 

 

A few simple items from his rucksack of mischief and Spike sets a mood in the musty room faster than Martha Stewart. Dumping Knox on the bed, he strips off his pants, but leaves him in in his jacket, white shirt and tie, along with his socks. The hole in the toe of one adds a nice touch of pathos, Spike thinks. A few minutes' work with three of Knox's plastic fasteners, some creatively applied lipstick smears and a Polaroid camera create a definite impression of kinky sex gone out of control.

 

 

He jerks Knox's shirt open, baring his chest with the blood-crusted cuts, carefully repositioning the tie. A second spray paint can and a waste bin liner from the bog add an extra touch of character assassination. Once he's found with his wedding tackle waving in the breeze, Knox's chloroformed-and-kidnapped tale will rate up there with O.J.'s real killer on the credibility scale, and he might even find himself strung up for the murder of the unidentifiable thugs in the back of his car.

 

 

Spike scrawls YOUR THE BEST on one of the Polaroids and places it in the middle of Knox's nearly-naked chest, then stuffs his supplies back in his pack. Sticking his head out of the door first to make sure the coast is clear, he steps out into the sodden parking lot. He leaves the door half open so Knox will be discovered sooner rather than later -- the point, after all, is not for the stupid sod to _lose_ his tackle. But when he thinks about what Knox was willing to do to Fred, he retraces his steps and pulls the door closed.

 

 

When he gets back to the car and tosses in his rucksack, Wes is snoring peacefully.

 

 

***

 

 

Red's waiting at the door when Spike arrives, the sleeping Wes over his shoulder and a flower in his hand. "Ta," he says as she holds the door open, and hands her the flower. "Don't sniff it. Need you to check it out, whether it's drugged or hexed."

 

 

"Sure," she says drily. "I'm a full-service witch. How'd the mission go? What happened to Wes?"

 

 

Spike lays Wes out on the couch. "The answer depends how your part goes. 'Least it's Wes in this condition and not Fred, an' he's in our hands, not Knox's."

 

 

"And where's this Knox?"

 

 

"In a shabby motel room, in what used to be called a compromising position. Xander told me he carries the god inside him, and he did have some interesting trinkets sewn inside himself. He's been parted from those, so I hope that means we won't be seeing any more trouble out of him."

 

 

"How is Xander?"

 

 

"Groggy. In pain, because he's keeping well doped up. Seemed to have a vision, because he told me about the god bits."

 

 

Willow blows out a breath. "I'm dying to see him, Spike, but I think I'm needed here. Let me show you something."

 

 

She leads him into Wes's office. "Call me nosy, but I was looking on Wes's desk to get some background on what's going on here. I found this." She offers the paper with Cordelia's sketch of McDonald's tattoos. "What can you tell me about this?"

 

 

"Cordelia brought this to us. When she made her ghostly appearance. She said she'd had a vision."

 

 

"Did she tell you anything else about them?"

 

 

"No, but we saw them again. Tattooed on another troublemaker connected with this. Lindsey McDonald. From what Xander's seen, he's trying to raise Illyria's army."

 

 

"That's bad."

 

 

"Well, that's bleedin' obvious, innit?"

 

 

She doesn't take offense. "I mean the combination of that particular person with these symbols. He's the guy I set up the magical burglar alarm for, right?"

 

 

Spike nods.

 

 

"These symbols -- they're kind of a mystical smokescreen. They make him invisible to electronic surveillance -- and to the magical kind as well."

 

 

"Fuck me blind!" Spike mutters.

 

 

"Thanks, but no thanks. You get the problem -- Lindsey could be _anywhere_."

 

 

"Balls."

 

 

"That usually is the source of most problems."

 

 

"Oi. _Excuse me_. Hyena goddess. Glory. That mad scientist Initiative bint." The roster's a little thin, more _exception that proves the rule_ than argument, but Spike can't be arsed to dredge up more. "What now?"

 

 

"There may be a spell that can counteract these. If we could get Wes to wake up that would help. I'll call Giles. We can scan these in and email them to him."

 

 

"Because the last time we emailed Giles some mystical twaddle it worked out so bloody brilliantly," Spike says.

 

 

"This time we know what it is. God, Spike, has anyone ever said you can be a real Eeyore sometimes?"

 

 

"Never mind that. I'll get on the phone, catch Giles up and get him started on finding the spell, and once that's done I'll start searching the books. You check out that flower. Maybe that'll lead to waking Sleeping Beauty in there, and you'll have your in-house research expert back."

 

 

Once again Red turns her laser gaze on Spike. But after a moment she says, "Good plan. Let's get on it."

 

 

***

 

 

Who knew that fighting evil would require so much time on the sodding phone? How'd the bloody Watchers Council ever get the job done before Bell came along? Tin cans and string, Spike supposes.

 

 

"Can you tell me more about the artifacts this Knox carried inside him?" Giles asks once Spike's filled him in.

 

 

"Best descriptive word I have is splintered. Didn't take a close look. They were squarish -- you could see the edges right through his skin. One felt the size of a small matchbox an' one was like a kiddie's block. Xander said he carries his god inside. Knew the name Illyria without having heard it from any of us, so I took him seriously. An' I was taking no chances leaving the things intact."

 

 

"I suspect that was a wise precaution. I'll see what Drogyn, the guardian of the well, can tell me. Do you know where the pieces are?"

 

 

"In Wes's pocket. Oh, hang on--"

 

 

Red has appeared in the doorway, holding the flower gingerly between two fingers. "Drugged," she says. "Wes seems to be starting to surface."

 

 

Well, that's a relief. He relays this information to Giles as Willow crosses to the door and flings the offending flower into the courtyard. "Bloody nice. Priest boy believes he's meeting Fred and her cousins for dinner, and he shows up with two demons to deal with the cousins an' a nice fat bunch of flowers laced with knockout powder for her. That's the sort of ruthless fuck we're dealing with." It makes him half wish he had killed Knox.

 

 

"Yes," Giles says, distracted.

 

 

"What? You thought of something?"

 

 

"Just how fortunate we are that we removed Xander from the influence of his goddess before he did something equally ruthless."

 

 

That thought goes right to the pit of his stomach, burning cold.

 

 

In the foyer there's a clamor of voices and laughter, the slamming of the door. Buffy and Faith are back, sounding as though they've made a detour through every pub between Wolfram &amp; Hart and home. There's another voice in the mix, one he can't immediately identify.

 

 

"Are you listening?"

 

 

"Sorry. Buffy and Faith have just come back from their mission." Gunn, he realizes. The other voice is Charlie Gunn.

 

 

"Email those symbols to me, and I'll get the coven to work on them. I'll see what I can uncover about the god bits, as you call them, from Drogyn and my texts. Keep your up own research. It's good you have two extra hands now."

 

 

Too right. The three of them might add up to one-third a Wes, after about four pots of coffee.

 

 

Spike heaves a great sigh and heads for the coffeemaker.

 

 

***

 

 

"Mission accomplished," Faith says with a sloppy salute as Spike enters.

 

 

Buffy finds this enormously funny and follows suit. "Charles duly rescued from Big Bad, sir."

 

 

"Glad to hear it," Spike says drily.

 

 

"Me too," says Gunn, bemused and marginally less drunk.

 

 

"Only way we could get him to leave the scene of danger, sir," Faith explains.

 

 

"Stubborn, stubborn man," Buffy adds, giggling.

 

 

"Lawyers," Faith scoffs.

 

 

"Do _you_ have the slightest idea what this is about?" Gunn asks Spike.

 

 

"Picture's getting clearer. Seen any sarcophaguses lately?"

 

 

"Can't say I have. It's more paperwork than mystical mayhem these -- wait. There was a form I signed. Customs form, something about some ancient artifact. That was a while ago, but someone came in today with the paperwork, insisting I inspect the thing."

 

 

"What happened?"

 

 

"Girls here dragged me off drinking."

 

 

"Girls here saved you from a horrible death. Get on the phone, Charlie, have that thing quarantined. Now."

 

 

Charlie gives him a look but does as he says. "Nobody, but nobody, goes near that thing," he barks. "Don't ask why, just do it." He snaps his phone shut and says, "Okay, why?"

 

 

"Your box there holds an ancient god. Banished from the earth when the demon age ended, but Illyria's priest did some kind of mojo, freed it from the Deeper Well. It takes form by taking over someone's body. The first choice was Fred, but we think you were Plan B."

 

 

"Flattering," Gunn says. "So who died and made you Wes?"

 

 

"No one, fortunately," Wes croaks from the sofa. He manages to sit up, but clutches his head. "But what the hell did happen?" He notices a crust of dried drool on his chin, rubbing at it with the heel of his hand.

 

 

"Flowers," Spike says. "Knox slipped you a mickey."

 

 

"Knox?" Gunn blurts.

 

 

"He's Illyria's priest," Willow says.

 

 

"Though maybe not now," Spike adds.

 

 

"Does this have any hope of making sense?" Gunn asks.

 

 

"Balls," Spike mutters again, then points a warning finger at Red to invite her to keep her opinions to herself. "Storytelling time later. First there's research. Coffee's brewed, an' I think all you lot could use a strong dose of the black."

 

 

***

 

 

He fills Wes in on the search for counterspells to McDonald's mojo, as well as the race to learn if Illyria's still a threat, and Wes starts rearranging his piles of books. Spike brings out the coffee and warms a mug of blood, and they all dive into the books.

 

 

The work, much to Spike's surprise, sobers everyone up quickly. The room is quiet but for the rustle of turning pages and the closing of one book, followed by the creak of old bindings when the next one's opened. Now and again someone reads a paragraph that seems like a potential lead.

 

 

"Wow," Red says after Buffy's shoved a book across the table to Wes. "This brings it all back, doesn't it?"

 

 

Buffy takes another text from the pile. "It does." She opens the book, breathes in its smell. "Faith and Wes give it the early senior year vibe. But I miss Xander and Giles."

 

 

"And Oz," Red adds.

 

 

"And Cordelia," Wes says.

 

 

"She seems so distant to us," Buffy says. "But not to you."

 

 

"No," Wes says softly. "Not distant at all. Did you see her, Charles?"

 

 

"Yeah," Gunn says. "She came by Wolfram &amp; Hart. Felt like a cheat, having her such a short time."

 

 

"Yes," Wes says, and there's a moment of silence between them.

 

 

"Doesn't feel wrong somehow that I'm here?" Faith asks Buffy. "Throw you out of the whole nostalgic mood?"

 

 

"It feels totally right that you're here," Buffy says. "Like something that needed healing has been healed." She smoothes her hand over the onionskin paper of the text. "You're working with Xander now."

 

 

Faith nods. "We got things settled."

 

 

"I'm glad. Any word on him?"

 

 

"I stopped by before we set the trap for Knox," Spike says. "Was doped to the gills, a little visiony. Annie's been sitting with him."

 

 

"Visiony?" Gunn repeats.

 

 

"Cordelia passed the visions to Xander," Wes says.

 

 

"Damn. So you started up the agency again."

 

 

"We reopened before that. But yes, it brings us closer to what we were."

 

 

A shadow passes over Charlie's face then, and he turns his attention back to the text before him.

 

 

Another twenty minutes of quiet before Spike hears the scratching of a key at the front door lock, then Annie steps in, dripping rain.

 

 

***

 

 

Wes leaps to help Annie with her burden, a pair of brown paper bags with stiff handles. "What's all this?"

 

 

"I stopped for soul food. I figured I'd find something like this when I got back, and I know how you guys get."

 

 

"What about Xander?" Spike asks.

 

 

"Seemed like he was sleeping, instead of just out of it. I think he's improving."

 

 

"Annie!"

 

 

"Charles!" She happily returns his embrace. "Gets more like the old days around here all the time."

 

 

"You remember Willow," Wes says once they've disengaged. "And this is Buffy. Buffy, this is Anne. She shares her considerable skills with us when she's not running a youth shelter in the rougher part of town."

 

 

"What about Xander?" Spike asks again. "Anyone with him?"

 

 

"A nurse was, when I left him. I stayed past visiting hours. They finally kicked me out."

 

 

"I don't much like it. Knox is ... tied up at the moment, but if _he_ knows Xander's a a seer --"

 

 

"I have a thought," Willow says. "I can teleport to his room, set a protection spell. I've been dying to see him since I got here anyway."

 

 

"We'd all be relieved to know he's protected," Wes says.

 

 

Willow nods. "I want to sit with him a little while. The city schematics I found are on Wes's desk. If you need me, call my cell." She swiftly prints her number on a piece of scrap, then she's gone.

 

 

"Perhaps now's a good time for a change of pace," Wes suggests. "Let's clear away the books for now and examine Willow's printouts as we eat. If we can't find Lindsey, perhaps we can find Illyria's vast underground army, and neutralize them before he reaches them."

 

 

Anne and Spike sort the books into piles of the rejected and the not-yet reviewed as Buffy and Gunn set out the large foil takeout containers. "Annie, I swear," Gunn says. "If I didn't love you already, this would do it."

 

 

Buffy sneaks another look toward Anne at the sound of her name. Spike wonders when she'll finally connect her with Chantarelle.

 

 

Anne laughs. "Keep on with the sweet talk, but I'm taken."

 

 

"That's news since I saw you last," Gunn says. "Anyone I'd know?"

 

 

"I think you might." She greets Wes with a kiss as he returns bearing the schematics.

 

 

"Wes, you're a lucky man," Gunn says.

 

 

"I never doubted it."

 

 

Wes spreads the printouts across the table and stands over them, absently eating from the plate Anne dished up for him. The rest of them serve themselves and sit crowded in together for a better view as Wes points out particular locations. "We can rule this one out, and this. We've seen them, and there are no sleeping armies." He crosses off the areas he pointed out.

 

 

"Scratch this one, too," Anne says, pointing out another spot on the diagram. "It's big enough, but no."

 

 

Buffy eyes her closely for a moment, then murmurs, "Lily."

 

 

Spike says, "You're way off. It's Chantarelle."

 

 

Annie dimples a smile. "It's Anne now. Anne Steele."

 

 

Buffy's hand flies to her mouth. "Anne."

 

 

"After one of the strongest women I know."

 

 

"You run a youth shelter?"

 

 

Anne nods. "About to be two. Runaways, at-risk kids, you know. I'm around a little less because my staff's so great, so I've been putting in time here."

 

 

"We wouldn't really be here if it weren't for Anne," Wes says. "She brought me our first case. Saved Xander and at the same time launched the agency."

 

 

"Anne," Buffy repeats in wonder. Tears shimmer in her dark lashes. "I don't know what to say."

 

 

"It was a gift," Anne says. "I loved it then, and I still do." She suddenly becomes aware of the attention focused on the two of them, and stabs her finger at the map. "What about this place?"

 

 

Wes bends over the diagram. "I think you're onto something."

 

 

***

 

 

Wes shuffles through the printouts for more detailed diagrams of the place in question. "This makes a great deal of sense. This building lies along a sort of mystical fault line." He points out locations on the original printout. "We've encountered activity here, here and here. I believe this may be the strongest concentration yet of mystical energies, due to several factors."

 

 

Before Wes can plunge on, Spike returns to the diagram Wes just produced. "According to this, we're talking about an office building."

 

 

"That's inevitable in this area of the city, Spike."

 

 

"So why haven't they noticed the bleedin' _army_ in the sub-subbasement?"

 

 

"It's out of phase with our timestream. There's no doubt a portal."

 

 

"Right there's your answer to the whole parking problem in the city," Buffy says. "If we could just jump dimensions and do some wheeling and dealing, we're the Trumps of the netherworld."

 

 

"Believe me," Gunn says. "There are demons who've had the air rights _and_ the time and multidimensional rights sewn up for centuries for the whole downtown area."

 

 

"Say we do find this army," Spike says. "Do we know anything about stopping them? Do we lob in a spell, or wade in there with the pikes and battle axes? You said 'vast army' -- care to elaborate on how bloody vast? Because I have to say even on a good day, we're not much more'n half-vast."

 

 

"In the original text, the exact wording used has a prefix that--"

 

 

Spike groans loudly.

 

 

Wes glares but continues. "--means tens of thousands."

 

 

Spike says, "I like quality violence as much as the next ... demon. But doesn't this sound a bit futile?"

 

 

"We've done futile before," Buffy says. "Futile is old hat."

 

 

"I dare say we all have," Wes says.

 

 

"All of _you_, maybe," Anne murmurs.

 

 

"Annie," Gunn says, "you've done what most people in this city consider impossible, on a daily basis. And without any mojo to help. I'm just as glad to know you have my back as anyone in this room."

 

 

"I'd say we're ready to go back at the texts," Wes says. "Let's clear all this away and have another go."

 

 

Gunn and Annie clear the remnants of dinner, while Spike and Faith start piling up texts from the not-yet-reviewed pile. Just as Spike is turning toward the table with an armload of books, Giles materializes directly in front of him. It's Faith's slayer speed that prevents a load of ancient texts from tumbling to the floor.

 

 

"Bloody hell!" Spike yelps.

 

 

"I understand that you're from the era of the steam engine," Giles says with exaggerated patience. "But you do have to remember to _charge_ the sodding mobile." He finally takes notice of his surroundings. "Buffy. How wonderful to see you."

 

 

"Giles." She steps into a hug.

 

 

He continues talking even as he wraps his arms around her. "It's good to see you all again -- except for the circumstances."

 

 

"Dire, of course," Faith says, with an arched eyebrow.

 

 

"When aren't they?" Buffy responds.

 

 

"You got something from Drogyn, though?" Spike asks.

 

 

"Yes. And the coven searched what they could from my books while I was away at the Deeper Well. We'll have to act quickly."

 

 

***

 

 

"Let's take review where we stand," Giles says. "Where is the Qwa'ha Xahn?"

 

 

"Smelly motel room, unless he's done a Houdini," Spike says. "Minus his god bits, which I smashed."

 

 

"Wesley, you have the pieces?"

 

 

Wes starts, as if he'd forgotten. "I believe so, yes." He delves into his pocket and retrieves the blood-caked fragments, which he spreads out on a paper plate left over from their takeaway, sorting them swiftly into two separate piles.

 

 

"And may I just interject, _Eww_," Buffy says. "You found these--"

 

 

"Sewn inside his chest," Spike responds.

 

 

"See your _Eww_ and raise you an _Eccccch_," Faith says.

 

 

"Excellent work," Giles says. "This changes the game substantially. Illyria's priest is off the board entirely, and Illyria itself -- these sacred objects provided a focal point for its power. They called it here to the site of its former temple. The coven couldn't say whether this will prevent the god from manifesting, but it will be greatly diminished."

 

 

"Yet we're not hearing 'Yay, we win!'" Buffy says.

 

 

"There are other players involved. Your tattooed man."

 

 

"Right," Spike says. "Lindsey McDonald. We first got wind of him because he was hanging about Angel's son, telling him he's some kind of superhero."

 

 

"Guy's a scumbag," Faith says. "Wolfram &amp; Hart lawyer." She casts a glance at Gunn. "Old school, that is."

 

 

Gunn doesn't notice the slight. "Whoa whoa whoa. Angel's _son_? Did you hear that from McDonald? Cause that guy would lie just as soon as look at you. Angel's got no son."

 

 

"It's a long story," Wes says, "but it's true. Lorne read the boy. Connor has no idea of his origins, however. He's been raised by another family."

 

 

"Lorne?" Giles asks.

 

 

"Empathic demon. Pylean. He's worked with Angel for some time."

 

 

"Can't tell the players without a scorecard," Buffy says.

 

 

"Lindsey's plan might seem like a simple case of revenge, but for Xander's visions," Wes says. "Carnage at best, an apocalypse at worst. One of his latest visions told us of Lindsey raising an army. Illyria's army, we believe."

 

 

"What are the odds?" Buffy murmurs.

 

 

"Just because we haven't found a connection, doesn't mean there isn't one," Wes says. "Their service at Wolfram &amp; Hart has surely overlapped."

 

 

"I don't buy it," Spike says. "Everything about McDonald screams 'loose cannon' to me."

 

 

"I'm inclined to trust your instincts on that," Giles says.

 

 

"Considering your own loose cannonyness," Buffy adds.

 

 

"There's prophecy involved," Giles continues. "The fullness of time. Fate and the god will use everything at hand to make events come to pass. Even loose cannons."

 

 

"Wheee, good times," Faith says drily.

 

 

"Yes, well," Wes says. "It's up to us to use everything at hand to be sure that prophecy doesn't come to pass."

 

 

"There's a temple to Illyria buried beneath the city," Giles says. "Vahla ha'nesh. Its army is there, waiting to be resurrected with the god. We must find it before McDonald does."

 

 

Wes pulls out the schematic they'd been studying before Giles's entrance. "We believe it's here."

 

 

Giles takes it in for a moment. "I believe you're right. We must prepare. I have a spell from the coven which will counteract McDonald's protections." He reaches in his inside jacket pocket, produces a small scroll. "We'll need some supplies. We'll also need every weapon we can lay hands to."

 

 

"About bleedin' time," Spike says, and he and Faith head off to the weapons locker.

 

 

***

 

 

Giles summons Red from Xander's side to take part in the Cavalcade of Spells they're getting ready to unleash.

 

 

"Let's saddle up," Faith says, only to scowl at the logistical aggro that ensues. "Eight champions, that's great. But we need a freakin' minivan to get around."

 

 

"Viper," Spike says, and he and Faith grab some favorite blades and leave the others to pile into Wes's SUV.

 

 

"Christ," Faith mutters as the Viper screeches away from the curb. "I feel more like a student of goddamn Hogwarts than a slayer."

 

 

"Feel your pain," Spike says. "But remember the last vast bleedin' army we faced. We were glad of a little mojo from Red that day, yeah?"

 

 

"Sure," she says, unconvinced and unconvincing.

 

 

"Never asked how you feel about that. The slayer line opening up."

 

 

Faith shrugs. "Not being the one girl the fate of the world rests on, probably all for the best. And I never was the _only_ one girl, anyway."

 

 

"That's not really an answer, I'm thinking."

 

 

"As my sainted ma used to say, it's all you're gonna get, so shut up and be happy. Ain't that the place?"

 

 

Wes flashes the high beams behind them.

 

 

"It is."

 

 

"Let's go kick some ass."

 

 

Illyria's temple hasn't turned into a temple of nightlife; the old skyscrapers, dwarfed now by the more modestly labeled highrises, contain opaquely-named import companies and stuffy law firms. The Viper and the SUV are the only vehicles parked out front, and the traffic flows by too fast to take note of a motley group with an even odder assortment of antiquated weaponry.

 

 

Strange not to have Xander with them. Often first to leap into any fight, even though he knew he'd get his own ass kicked. Spike's glad Xander's out of this one. It has the potential to be grimmer than most, which is saying something.

 

 

The heavy doors open to them so swiftly Spike's not even sure which of their magically-inclined flicked a finger. Their footsteps echo in the marble lobby as they follow Red.

 

 

She comes to an abrupt halt at the center of a large sunburst design on the floor. "Do you feel that? The air crackles with it. The portal's been opened once already, and not long ago."

 

 

"Prepare for a battle," Wes says. "We'll be working simultaneously to unravel Lindsey's protection spell, and to stop the rising of the army, but if we're too late it'll come down to a fight."

 

 

"Do we know exactly what we're fighting?" Buffy asks.

 

 

"We will when we see them," Wes says helpfully.

 

 

Faith rolls her shoulders. "Fuck it. No fun knowing the end of the movie, anyway. How 'bout we kick the doors in?"

 

 

There are no doors, per se, but Red blazes through the portal like she's tearing through a wet paper bag. Spike steps through, sword at the ready, with Faith, Buffy and Gunn. The skin prickles at the back of his neck as he passes through. He hangs back as he's been told, though his muscles scream for action.

 

_"Vast" is the word of the day, innit?_ The temple seems to reach on forever. Its air, however, feels like that of a tomb. The great statue looming over them has been sheared off, its top in large pieces at its feet. Fallen to some earthquake over the last few thousand years? The old gods, they're not what they used to be. Neither, he'd say, are their armies. Vast, yeah, but dried out, weightless, like the husks of cicadas still clinging to a tree.

 

 

One voice rises up, chanting. Male. American.

 

 

"It's McDonald," Spike warns. "He's already started."

 

 

Giles and Red make with the Latin. Astounds him, how much he remembers of it. Dead language, dead man.

 

 

Wes beckons. "Spike."

 

 

Spike casts a glance toward Faith, then approaches Wes.

 

 

Wes's blade bites into his neck.

 

 

***

 

 

Blood spills into the ceremonial bowl Giles and Red hold between them.

 

 

"You lot owe me for this one," Spike mutters. _Soddin' arterial blood of a soddin' unclean, indeed._

 

 

"I know," Wes says softly. Working quickly, he patches the wound, and moves off with Anne to begin casting their own spell.

 

 

"Check this shit." Faith points to a disturbance in the air. It's McDonald, gradually becoming visible as the symbols swirl in the air around him. It makes Spike think of the words of Xander's goddess when she'd taken over Faith, writhing upon her skin and then running like rain as the goddess lost her hold. Though his face darkens with rage, McDonald keeps up the chanting, and there's an eerie rustling as thousands upon thousands of warriors raise their heads as one.

 

 

"Sweet Baby Jesus in a crackhouse," Gunn breathes behind him.

 

 

Faith raises her crossbow and looses a bolt, which might have nailed McDonald in the heart had he not begun rising into the air, drawn toward some kind of vortex stirring the deadened air. It spears him in the gut instead, but the snarl that issues from him seems as much fury as pain. "_No! Fuck! No!_" Not McDonald's escape hatch then, but some other force at work.

 

 

A desiccated figure at the head of the ranks of warriors begins to lift its sword as if leading a charge. Buffy barrels toward it, swinging her battle axe and severing its head neatly from its shoulders. Before the demon general can even topple to the ground it bursts into flame, the head tumbling into the ranks below and setting them off like dry tinder, the whole legion roaring into flame at once. The fire no sooner flashes than it dies, leaving columns of ash that crumble and fall.

 

 

They all gape for a moment, then Faith elbows Spike. "Looks like you got gypped out of the quality violence."

 

 

Too true. "Any battle when the field goes up in flame and I don't, that's a battle I'll take," he says.

 

 

She sees right through that and her pretty mouth twists. "Yeah, right."

 

 

"I call shotgun on the Viper," Buffy says.

 

 

***

 

 

"This isn't what I expected," Buffy says as Spike drives them back to their -- headquarters? Home? The ark, is what he wants to call it.

 

 

"A mite anticlimactic, yeah. Least you got in a shot. I went to the apocalypse, and all I got was this soddin' neck wound."

 

 

"That's not what I meant," she counters. "I'm talking about you, the others. It's like you've found family, a home."

 

 

"Bit of a surprise to me, too, pet. We all rallied 'round Xander, though. Suppose he'd deny it, but he's the one brought us all together."

 

 

"When he was crazy, you mean."

 

 

Spike nods. "Anne found him first. Not that she recognized him then, but she went to Wes for help. I was hanging 'round Wolfram &amp; Hart then, but chafing under it, so I barged my way in to the whole mess. Faith was drawn in by slayer dreams; she came into it later."

 

 

"About Xander? I never dreamed about him."

 

 

"You were off in the jungles, yeah? Couldn't have reached him in time. Faith was available to take the call, that's all."

 

 

Buffy chews her lower lip and watches the scenery flash by. His answer's not enough, and he knows it never will be.

 

 

"Slayer. You can't beat yourself up." A pointless statement, he realizes as soon as it's out. "Well, you could, but it would be all _Fight Club_, which was bloody lame and stupid, when all's said an' done."

 

 

That teases a smirk from her, at least, but it's followed by a sigh. "He's always been there when I needed him, Spike. I had my chance to do something for him, and I missed the boat."

 

 

"Seems Faith needed a chance to repay a debt too," he says softly.

 

 

"Yeah," she says, but her voice is so faint he doubts a human could have caught it.

 

 

He lets her feel how she needs to feel, and they spend the rest of the drive in silence.

 

 

***

 

 

"Here's what I don't get," Faith says: "What's with the 'And the evil lawyer shall ascend into heaven' crap?" They're back around the table with the last of Anne's soul food dinner -- banana cream pie. Even Spike's having a piece.

 

 

"I'm not entirely certain what that's about either," Wes says. "Though I doubt very much that heaven was involved. This scheme may have won him a great many enemies. Wolfram &amp; Hart has a stake in the apocalypse, but they want it on their own timetable and no one else's."

 

 

"Could be he was on their list since he walked off the job," Gunn suggests. "I've seen the contracts they have for their people. They don't let 'em go easily. Death won't even get you out."

 

 

"Their people," Faith repeats. "That include you? Angel?"

 

 

Charlie shakes his head. "We didn't sign the standard contract. All of us, we're special cases, though I still haven't figured out why."

 

 

"They can't beat Angel," Faith says, "so maybe they can seduce him to death."

 

 

That provokes a scowl. "We're doing good work. Only now we've got more resources than some piddling P.I. agency." Gunn holds up his hand. "I'm talking about before, about Angel's thing, not about you."

 

 

"Yet you signed the papers which allowed Illyria's sarcophagus into the city," Giles says mildly.

 

 

"There's a whole legal department," Gunn snaps. "If it wasn't me, it would've been any of them. And who exactly are you, anyway?"

 

 

"Mr. Giles is a former colleague of mine," Wes says. "From the Watcher's Council."

 

 

"A Watcher." Gunn flicks a glance at Rupert, then back at Wes. "Like your father." A shot to the heart. The flicker of reaction on Wes's face shows Gunn's aim is dead on.

 

 

"We're losing the point," Spike says. "Are we assuming it's Wolfram &amp; Hart that got McDonald?"

 

 

"They have reason," Wes replies. "But there may be others who have equal motive. We don't know what Lindsey's been up to the past several years. It may not even be an enemy of Lindsey's. Whoever took him may have assumed he'd be Illyria's priest. Or perhaps even the god itself." Wes glances toward Giles. "Perhaps your guardian of the Deeper Well found a way to call Illyria back, and it misfired. Or, for all we know, this was a trap laid millennia ago, by someone or something long gone."

 

 

"D'you think it'll spit him back out?" Buffy asks. "If he wasn't the intended target?"

 

 

Wes shrugs. "It's difficult to say. His captors may not be sticklers for detail."

 

 

"If he winds up back here," Red says, "we'll know. The tracer I put on him should hold. Unless he wants to get a whole new set of tattoos first."

 

 

Wes's cell phone twitters, and he frowns as he glances at the display. "Fred?" The frown deepens as he tries to make out what's on the other end. "Fre--" The color drains from his face. "Knox," he says in a low, urgent voice. "He has Fred."

 

_Bugger._ Spike finds himself on his feet. "You," he says to Wes. "With me."

 

 

As they grab for their weapons he hears Faith say, "Guess the quality violence fairy didn't skip our house after all."

 

 

***

 

 

"All my fault," Spike mutters. "I should've killed the bastard when I had the chance."

 

 

Wes shushes him. "It's hard enough to hear," he whispers. They're in the Viper, speeding toward Wolfram &amp; Hart. Wes has the phone pressed to his ear, mute on, trying to catch whatever bits he can. Fred's apparently managed to speed dial him, but her cell is in a pocket or on the floor of the car, and Wes is only catching random bits, which he relays during the silences.

 

_Knox, please. Where are you taking me?_

 

_...betrayed me._

 

_...not true. I was delayed, and you weren't..._

 

_You have a destiny. Betrayal won't..._

 

 

Spike speeds through the dark, wet streets. The club kid traffic has died out, but the trucks are beginning to move in. Restaurant supply, news trucks delivering midnight's headlines. The time Spike would normally begin thinking about finding cover before daybreak.

 

 

"Fuck!" Wes spits. He snaps the phone shut. "Dropped the call."

 

 

"Least we know where he's taking her." Spike senses the rebuke in Wes's silence. "Should have killed him," he says again.

 

 

"No, I -- dammit, I never should have trusted her to isolate herself from him. She's so generous, so trusting once she comes to like someone. And I suspect they're more than friends."

 

 

"They are. I can --" It occurs to him Wes does not want to hear that he can smell them on one another. "I think you may be right."

 

 

"She's never believed the worst of anyone."

 

 

"I know it." Spike presses the accelerator to the floor. "We'll get to her in time."

 

 

Wes's cell trills again and he answers without pausing to look at the display. "Fred?" he says in a tense whisper. "Yes. Charles." He listens. "Ah." The syllable seems to take all the breath from him. "We'll see you there."

 

 

The phone snaps closed. "Gunn just had a call from security. Quarantine's been breached."

 

 

Ah, Christ. Poor wee Fred.

 

 

***

 

 

They hit the Wolfram &amp; Hart lobby on the run, Wes flashing his access I.D. "Has Miss Burkle been in?" he asks the guard at the desk.

 

 

"Sure. Her and the department manager."

 

 

"I'll need direct access to the lab floor."

 

 

"Well, before normal hours we don't--"

 

 

"Miss Burkle's in danger."

 

 

That erases all hesitation. "Elevator seventeen."

 

 

"Everyone loves Fred," Spike says as the lift doors slide closed.

 

 

"It's one of the rare things I can count on, even here."

 

 

The lift jolts, moving up with almost sickening speed. "You love her."

 

 

Wes doesn't bother hiding his annoyance. "Well, of course I--" He realizes belatedly what Spike means. "I did. I could see it would never ...work."

 

 

Spike can read the pause. _Never be returned, you mean._

 

 

The elevator chimes, and the two of them jostle one another in the attempt to get out before the doors are completely open. In the outer lab, Fred struggles, hands bound behind her, as Knox steers her toward the quarantine area with an iron grip on the back of her neck.

 

 

"Knox," Wes says. "Let Fred go."

 

 

Knox turns to face him, pulling Fred against him as a shield. "You can't believe you can stop this."

 

 

"You'd be amazed what I believe," Spike says, slowly advancing. "I believe for every drop of rain that falls, a flower grows."

 

 

"Come any closer, and I'll snap her neck."

 

 

"Bollocks," he says casually. "She's no good to you dead. Least, not till you've got Illyria installed in her. Sure you can do that without a cock-up? You've botched everything else. You were my priest, I think I'd just lay low a few thousand more millennia, see if I could come up with better."

 

 

"Spike," Wes says. "Please don't help."

 

 

Still clutching Fred to him, Knox shuffles backward until he reaches the automatic door switch for the inner lab. He jabs it with his elbow, and the doors hiss open.

 

 

"Knox, please," Fred says.

 

 

"Don't be afraid," Knox says. "You're about to be transformed." He pulls her inside with him, manhandling her toward the sarcophagus. She squirms and ducks out of his grip for a moment, making him a clear target for just long enough. Wes brings up his gun and fires. The bullet punches into Knox's shoulder, and the smell of blood blossoms in the air.

 

 

Knox staggers back, but lunges toward Fred, shouting with pain as he grabs her. "This is ordained. My destiny. Yours." He shoves her, and Fred sprawls atop the sarcophagus. "No," he pants. "What? _No._"

 

 

He doesn't resist as Wes yanks him back and away from Fred. Spike rushes into the room to help Fred, but comes to a halt as he sees what Knox is staring at.

 

 

A figure sprawled in the corner of the room, pink and blonde and running with mascara. "Spikey?" she says faintly. "Spikey, I feel so terrible."

 

 

***

 

 

"Harm? What happened?"

 

 

She coughs. "I breathed this -- eccchh -- dusty crap. Aren't there regulations? I mean, OSHA or whatever?"

 

 

Spike kneels beside her. "There was a quarantine. What's hurting, pet?"

 

 

"I _know_ there was a quarantine. I mean, what the hell? Way to make people curious."

 

 

Knox howls curses on the other side of the sarcophagus, until Wes says, "Shut up," and pistol whips him.

 

 

"Wesley!" Fred exclaims.

 

 

"That would be you, if he'd had his way," Wes says.

 

 

"Somebody _do_ something," Harmony cries.

 

 

"Tell me where it--" Spike begins, but he's interrupted by the elevator door binging and Gunn, Faith and Buffy racing into the lab, weapons at the ready.

 

 

"The sarcophagus," Gunn says.

 

 

"Illyria's already been released," Wes says. "Harmony was infected."

 

 

"_Harmony?_" Buffy blurts.

 

 

"She works here," Wes says.

 

 

"But you know--"

 

 

"She's a vampire, yes." Wes says.

 

 

Gunn says, "What does it mean, if this god thing infects a vampire?"

 

 

"I don't know."

 

 

Harmony clutches at Spike's arm. "This is worse than dying. Everything's like on fire or something."

 

 

"I know, pet." He pulls her closer, strokes her hair.

 

 

"Now I know it's bad. You're being nice to me."

 

 

"_Oi_, I've been nice." A pathetic attempt at acting normal, but he carries on. "Remember the breakroom?"

 

 

"You didn't even finish!"

 

 

He shoots a foul look at Wes. "I was dragged away."

 

 

Harmony's demon face emerges as she convulses, a surge of white foam erupting from her mouth. "Oh," she says in dismay as it flows down her pink jacket. "As if this didn't suck enough." Her hand clamps hard around his arm as her head snaps back, and a river of foul-smelling foam courses down her chin. She convulses, her heels drumming the white tile floor, and Spike's forearm snaps like a dry twig in her grasp.

 

 

Spike yells with pain and Buffy and Faith scramble to help, but Harmony goes completely limp, releasing him.

 

 

"Your arm," Buffy says.

 

 

"Broken, yeah."

 

 

"I think we got worse problems coming," Faith says. "Check out her eyes."

 

 

They seem to frost over, hardening like the waters of a lake freezing over in a time-lapse video. They turn a strange, dead shade of blue.

 

 

"Sorry," Faith says, hooking Spike at the armpits and yanking him up and back from Harmony's sprawled body. He bites back a groan, cradling his arm.

 

 

A hollow, shuddering gasp issues from Harmony's throat, causing them all to take an involuntary step back. Streaks of blue thread through her hair, and a weird bluish tinge creeps over her face.

 

 

"I told you," Knox crows. "Nothing will stop Illyria's rise. It's--" He breaks off with a grunt as Wes strikes him again.

 

 

"Let's stake this thing," Faith says. "Anyone think to bring a stake?"

 

 

Before she can make a move, Harmony's corpse jerks up. Her movements strange and graceless, like some mechanical bird, she looks up at the people surrounding her, then down at her hijacked body, turning her hands this way and that as she inspects them. Then she speaks, her voice deeper and harsher than Harmony's.

 

 

"What manner of foulness is this?"

 

 

***

 

 

"What world is this?" Illyria's hands roam over its new body, fingers plucking at Harmony's clothes as if the body itself is too small. "Where is the Qwa'ha Xahn?"

 

 

"Here," Knox says, slipping free of Wes's grasp. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment. Well. Probably you do. I've worshipped you since I was eleven. I brought you back."

 

 

Her lip curls in contempt. Harmony would have killed to pull off this expression. "You claim to be my priest, yet you speak to me thus? These are your people? Have you taught them nothing?"

 

 

"Not mine, no. Your -- your -- your godliness. They're infidels."

 

 

"And yet you stand with them. Allow them in my presence."

 

 

"No! They came to stop this. I protected you, saw that you came into this world."

 

 

"_On your knees!_" she roars, then clutches her chest.

 

 

Knox drops to his knees before her. "I'm sorry, your -- your worship."

 

 

"Has no one taught you the ancient ways?"

 

 

"J-just what I could get from books. Sometimes the translations--" He trails off into silence under the force of her baleful stare, which she maintains for at least a full minute. Spike can't imagine how Knox feels; makes his own balls shrivel just watching her do it to Knox.

 

 

"Your godliness?" Knox finally stammers.

 

 

"You cannot be him. You do not bear the sacraments."

 

 

"I did!" Knox tugs at his shirt, pulls it up to show her the old scar, the fresh wounds. "They tortured me. Cut them out."

 

 

Her lip curls. "Any Qwa'ha Xahn worth the name would have died before allowing such a sacrilege."

 

 

Another outpouring of stammering, so frantic Spike can't even make out what he means to say.

 

 

Illyria attempts to stand, but falters. She lifts a pink-manicured hand to her head and encounters Harmony's vamp face. Her fingers explore the ridges around her eyes, test the points of her fangs. "What have you done?" she says in a low voice.

 

 

Spike's balls think about crawling up inside his body.

 

 

Knox's too, he'd guess. "Y-y-your, um, glory?"

 

 

"You have allowed me to be reborn into the body of one unclean?"

 

 

Knox glances around in panic. "I'd prepared a receptacle for you. This one!" He gestures wildly toward Fred. "I chose one I love--"

 

 

"You have poisoned me." Her hand flashes out and seizes Knox by the throat. Spike hears the sickening sound of his windpipe crushing in her grasp, the desperate whistling of his attempts to breathe.

 

 

Fred makes a faint sound and burrows herself in Gunn's shoulder.

 

 

Knox's lips flutter in hopeless, silent supplication until he topples at his god's feet.

 

 

***

 

 

Illyria doesn't even bother to watch her priest's final frantic gasps for air. She takes in the others with quick, birdlike jerks of the head. "Humans. And another unclean. Yet you do not cower in caves lest a predator tear your hearts out."

 

 

"That's only every other Tuesday," Buffy says.

 

 

"The demon world has faded," Wes says. "It's humankind that covers the earth now."

 

 

"I would have thought your kind would be long extinct by now."

 

 

"We're persistent," Wes says. "Adaptable."

 

 

"Stubborn," Illyria counters. "Like vermin who refuse to die out."

 

 

"We're not the ones came crawling out of our crypt like Son of Svenghoulie here," Faith says. "Looks like you're the one who didn't get the memo."

 

 

Illyria turns the baleful blue stare on Faith. "You dare speak to me thus only because I am weakened."

 

 

"Well, yeah." Faith hefts her battle axe. "Someone want to tell me why we haven't killed this bitch yet?"

 

 

"Because we're waiting to hear it call us 'puny mortals,' which would be a comic book geek's dream come true," says a voice behind them.

 

 

Spike whirls, getting an agonizing reminder of his broken arm. "Xander."

 

 

To Spike's amazement, Xander is on his feet, though leaning a bit on Red, who'd gone back to the hospital in case of another transmission from the PTB. He's dressed in his blood-spattered jeans and a hospital johnnie.

 

 

"I grow weary of your race," Illyria says. "Ignorant of all save the pleasure of hearing your own voices."

 

 

"Ooh, scalding scorn from Harmony," Xander shoots back. "Devastating, as always."

 

 

"Take care," Wes says. "She just killed her own priest."

 

 

"She's dying. She eats the soul of the person she infects. The viscera." _Viscera._ Xander must be half in the vision yet. "That junk food, it'll kill you every time. Empty calories."

 

 

"Enough of your insolence." Illyria clutches at a chair, pulls herself unsteadily to her feet. "I will silence you as well."

 

 

"Why don't you try." Faith swats her with the flat of her battle axe, dumping her unceremoniously on her demon-god ass.

 

 

"My army," Illyria gasps. "When I call them forth, you and your kind will be trampled in the filth once more."

 

 

"Your army is gone." There's almost a note of sympathy in Wes's voice. "Turned to ash."

 

 

"Your time is gone," Xander adds, the taunting tone fallen away. "You aren't the first to try to breathe life into what's gone."

 

 

"I am the _master_ of time," Illyria snarls, flinging a hand up into the air as if casting a spell. Spike feels a slight queasiness that comes on and then passes as Illyria drops her arm and falls back against the wall. Her physical distress is palpable.

 

 

"You thought you'd come back to a better world," Xander goes on. "But the nothingness was better than this, wasn't it?"

 

 

"Cease your prattle!" She presses the heel of her hand into her chest. "You presume to offer your pity to a god? It disgusts me."

 

 

Xander shows his palms in a _meant no harm_ gesture.

 

 

"All of you, you wait like carrion birds for the death of one so far above you that--"

 

 

Faith steps forward again, wielding the battle axe. This time she leads with the edge, and it neatly parts Harmony's head from her shoulders. The shell of what Harmony was crumbles to ash and falls to the floor. "She was right," Faith says. "Wasn't right, staring at her like she's some beetle struggling on its back." She turns toward Xander. "Good seeing you on your feet."

 

 

"Could've stood another day in bed, but--"

 

 

"You had a vision," Wes says.

 

 

Xander nods. "That Illyria would devour a vampire, but would choke."

 

 

"An' you thought it meant me," Spike says.

 

 

A lopsided grin. "Well, you've made _me_ choke at least once."

 

 

Buffy throws up her hands. "Whoa, that's _way_ TMI."

 

 

Glancing around at the others, Xander colors. "Um. Let's blame that on the morphine, shall we? And maybe the whole trading snaps with a god, too."

 

 

Willow looks around, finding a chair and dragging it toward him. "Sit, mister."

 

 

"The doctor said you'd be in the hospital a week, maybe two," Buffy says.

 

 

Xander shrugs. "I think the teleporting kicked my ass more than the injury. Will did something--"

 

 

"I didn't do _this_. That was just a protection spell."

 

 

"Perhaps we should explore this elsewhere," Wes says. "After all, we are standing here over the body of a Wolfram &amp; Hart employee, and the actual killer has vanished. It's less than an hour until the office opens."

 

 

"I'll take care of everything," Gunn says. He gentles his voice. "Fred, you should go with them."

 

 

She casts a glance toward Wes, then down. "I think I just need to go home."

 

 

Right. Wes might've saved her life, but she may never forgive him for revealing her lover's true face.

 

 

"I think we should run our boy past the hospital," Faith suggests. "Make sure he's really okay."

 

 

"Spike needs medical help more than I do," Xander says.

 

 

"Think they might notice the lack of a heartbeat," Spike says. "I'll heal on my own anyhow."

 

 

"Y'all need to go," Gunn urges.

 

 

Buffy offers Xander a steadying hand as he rises, and Faith falls in beside Spike, retrieving his weapon from the floor. They straggle out to the elevator bank, looking a sad, ragged lot, no doubt, for warriors who've saved the world.

 

 

As they wait for the lift, Xander reaches out and cups his palm behind the back of Spike's head. It's this small gesture, more than anything else, makes him feel the world's worth saving.

 

 

***

 

 

Dr. Chaudhury's rendered speechless by Xander's recovery. They're having this conversation round Xander's hospital bed, though he's still dressed in his jeans and the faded hospital gown.

 

 

"Well, you did say you were the guy we wanted," Faith says. She throws enough body language behind her words to leave no doubt about her subtext. She's told her Seraphim colleagues often enough that slaying makes her horny; she should have a god-sized appetite about now.

 

 

"If your family will excuse me, I'd like to examine you," Dr. Chaudhury says. "And we'll have to remove the drainage tube."

 

 

"Oh." Xander digs in his jeans pocket. "My chest started itching like hell in the car coming over here. When I reached up to scratch, I ended up with this." He holds up the tube.

 

 

Without waiting for the others to clear out, the doctor lifts Xander's gown. "It just worked its way out?"

 

 

"I guess."

 

 

"I had a belly button ring do that once," Faith says. She rubs her hand just below the place in question. "Couple of months after the piercing, _plink!_ Out it came. Runs in the family, I guess."

 

 

The doctor colors, but maintains the eye contact. "I'm getting the idea this whole family is pretty extraordinary." He turns to the rest. "Now out. All of you. I need to examine your brother."

 

 

Wes leads Spike down the hallway, with an abrupt detour into a supply closet.

 

 

"Wesley, I didn't know you cared."

 

 

Wes has picked up a thing or two from Illyria, in the baleful stare department. "Let me have a look at your arm."

 

 

"Like I told Xander, it'll heal on its own."

 

 

"It will heal faster if it's given some attention."

 

 

Spike sighs and begins struggling out of his jacket.

 

 

"Let me help." Wes carefully eases it off. "Strange to see you adopting Xander's gesture."

 

 

"Adopting what?"

 

 

Wes cautiously runs his hands along Spike's forearm. "The way he cradles his arm when it's bothering him."

 

 

"Hadn't thought of that. Same arm, too. Shame his won't heal fast as mine."

 

 

"He's healing in other ways. Don't you think? He seemed very much his old self back there in the lab. Only--" He gently probes the area around the break, murmuring _sorry_ when Spike hisses an inward breath

 

 

"Only what?"

 

 

"I could be off base. Before he came back from Africa, I only knew him as a schoolboy, and not very well then."

 

 

"But?"

 

 

"He seems more than his old self. Stronger. The way he spoke to Illyria about the world she'd lost--"

 

 

Spike shivers at the memory of that charged moment, bringing forth another gasp of pain. "He dared to have pity for a god."

 

 

"Not pity. Compassion."

 

 

"He misses her, in a strange way. His goddess. Don't think there's anyone who can fill up the loneliness she left in him."

 

 

"No. Perhaps that's true of all of us. He's just one of the few who's seen what he's lost."

 

 

This irritates Spike somehow, the downgrading of what Xander's suffered to a commonplace existential experience. "Right. Could we just wind a few lengths of tape round this and get out?"

 

 

Wes blinks in surprise. "Certainly." He tends his task with quick but gentle hands, then helps Spike ease his jacket back on. "Now then," Wes says, "let's take him home."

 

 

***

 

 

It takes a slayer to make Xander acquiesce to the obligatory wheelchair ride to the front door. The nurse asks what he wants done with the small collection of floral arrangements.

 

 

"How did I get flowers? I haven't even been here that long."

 

 

"When you're busy fighting evil, it pays to have the florist on speed-dial," Buffy says.

 

 

"Fighting evil." The orderly chuckles as he adjusts one of the foot rests. "That's a good one."

 

 

"My favorite all-purpose injury excuse," Xander says. "Impresses girls."

 

 

"I'll try it," the orderly says.

 

 

"So does this," Faith says, holding up a white stuffed animal. "Don't forget your bunny." She turns over the tag hanging on the bow around its neck. "From Anne."

 

 

The exuberant grin turns a little wistful, and there's a fraction of a second's hesitation before Xander reaches for it. He strokes its head a moment, lost in thought. The grin reemerges, a little frayed, but real. "Anya would have taken this as an evil omen. She'd rather have had snakes crawling all over her, I think, than see a bunny."

 

 

"I remember that now. She ever tell you why?" Buffy says.

 

 

"Nope. Mystery for the ages." He gives an apologetic smile to the nurse and orderly. "Don't mind me. I'm ready to roll. Give the flowers to some patients who don't have any." He keeps the bunny.

 

 

Their little procession makes its way to the hospital entrance, where Xander says his goodbyes to the nurse and orderly, and steps outside to squint up into the sky. "Still with the apoca-rain, huh? Thought maybe we'd get a couple of days off for good behavior."

 

 

"Call me a heretic," Faith says, "but maybe it's just rain."

 

 

***

 

 

"Viper's this way," Spike says, and they split off from the others, who head for the SUV. He fishes the keys from his pocket and dangles them. "Feel up to driving?"

 

 

Xander takes the keys. "What happened to you, anyway? You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet."

 

 

"No, but why don't we keep that in mind for later."

 

 

Xander laughs softly.

 

 

"'S'nothing much, really. Contributed a little blood to a spell, and that's where the neck wound comes in."

 

 

"Wes never thought of doing the finger stick?"

 

 

"Had to be arterial blood. Of an unclean. An' let me just say, this unclean shite is wearin' thin."

 

 

"llyria did lay it on a bit thick, didn't she? What about the arm?"

 

 

"That. Poor Harm. She grabbed onto me when she was dying, and _snap!_"

 

 

Xander lets out a breath. "Harmony. Yeah. Hard to tell who to feel sorrier for there, her or Illyria."

 

 

"Was an ugly death for both of them, but Harm -- she wasn't trying to force her way into a world that wasn't hers anymore. Wasn't even drinking human blood anymore. No chip, no soul. I think she just wanted to belong somewhere, and she latched onto Angel."

 

 

"Poster boy for redemption."

 

 

"Funny, that."

 

 

As they reach the Viper's parking spot, Xander reaches out and feathers his fingers over Spike's hair and down along his jawline. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Sorry about Harmony, little as I liked her. But I'm so damn glad it wasn't you." He leans in for a kiss both tender and brain-meltingly hot. "Think maybe we should get a room."

 

 

As it turns out, they get a car.

 

 

***

 

 

There's a hasty rearranging of hair and clothes once they pull up in front of Seraphim, but that requires Xander's help due to the lack of reflection, and the touch of his hands leads to more disarranging of hair and clothes.

 

 

Xander looks a little wild and feverish when they finally extract themselves from the Viper, and god only knows what Spike looks like, but everyone's waiting, so they dash through the chilly rain to the house.

 

 

"You guys get lost coming over here?" Faith asks. She takes in their rumpled state. "Oh. You hit that big windstorm on the way. Get blown halfway to Canada, did you?"

 

 

Xander's fit of giggles hardly dispels that notion.

 

 

"There is a distinctly disturbing trend going on here," Buffy says.

 

 

"I can't believe you're still having issues with that," Red says. "I know it's different this time because you and Spike--"

 

 

"I'm talking about an alarming amount of oversharing."

 

 

"Hey, I said nothing this time," Xander says.

 

 

"_I'm_ not running around talking about what a hottie the Immortal is."

 

 

"_What?_" Spike yelps.

 

 

"Is that Xander?" Giles enters the room. Hasn't been resting he's been doing while the others were facing down Illyria. "Don't smother the boy, let him inside."

 

 

"Giles. They told me you were here." Xander lets himself be engulfed in a hug.

 

_The Immortal?!_ "Buffy--"

 

 

But she's already on the move. "I haven't had _my_ hug yet. You weren't exactly up to it when I got here." She waits for Xander to step back from Giles' embrace and slips her arms around him. Red piles on, and then Annie, and even Wes allows himself a hearty clap on the shoulder.

 

_The Immortal? Has to be an evil joke, her little zinger to pay Spike back for not telling her he'd been brought back. Rome has a long memory; she could have heard rumors._

 

 

"How well you're looking," Giles tells Xander.

 

 

Xander scratches his neck. "Yeah, I guess we need to have a powwow about that."

 

 

"That's not entirely what I meant."

 

 

Spike sees it now, how far he's come. Welcoming the relieved affection of his friends, absorbing and returning it, rather than taking it in cautious little doses, as he'd done when the goddess first left him.

 

 

His arm still around Annie, Xander glances around and finds Spike, reaching out to tousle his hair.

 

 

"There's food," says Annie.

 

 

"Of course there's food," Xander says. "In enormous quantities, I take it."

 

 

She laughs. "Of course." She starts sheepdogging them toward the dining room, setting Xander at the head of the table, Spike at his right hand.

 

_Fuck! The Immortal?!_

 

 

***

 

 

The smell of garlic makes Spike's eyes water and his throat burn.

 

 

"Shit," Anne exclaims. "_Shit_. I didn't think. I'll throw it out. There's still a plain loaf." She'd made a large pot of spaghetti sauce at some point over the last day or two, and thrown it all together with pasta bowties, confetti-colored salad and the unfortunate garlic bread. Though all of it, truth be told, is a little more pungent than Spike's comfortable with.

 

 

"Don't be daft. Enjoy yourselves." He contents himself with the wine Annie's also supplied, something she mysteriously refers to as Two-Buck Chuck.

 

 

"D'you miss it?" Faith asks. "You know, from before? Big fistfuls of bread dripping with garlic butter?"

 

 

Xander slips away from the table, waving off Annie's attempt to rise and be helpful.

 

 

"In my time, pet, garlic was something foreigners ate. Never so much as tasted it."

 

 

"Fuck me! That's a damn tragedy."

 

 

"I console meself with the Bloomin' Onion."

 

 

Xander returns with two bowls mounded with pasta covered in butter and liberally peppered, each topped with a large chunk of bread torn off the loaf. He sets one before Spike and seats himself without comment, then tucks in.

 

 

After the first few moments of concentrated eating and commenting on the food, the conversation picks up again. There's so much happiness around the table that Spike's not sure where to look. Buffy glows in the presence of her old friends, firing questions at everyone almost too quickly to respond. Giles is well into the manful suppression of strong emotion, but Spike, equally versed in this skill, can see through it. Red's giddy, a little motormouthed, while Xander is somewhere between his old volubility and his recent quiet. Happy, yet settled in himself. Spike sees the Sunnydale lot taking this in, sneaking little assessing peeks at Xander -- at the two of them -- as the meal and the talk go on, while the LA contingent takes it all for granted.

 

 

When Annie finishes telling a story of zombie cops -- her tale of the first time she met Wesley -- Xander says, "We need to do this more. And what the hey, we don't need to wait until I've nearly been skewered or swallowed whole to do it. Next time, I want Dawnie here, too."

 

 

"And Andrew?" Buffy asks.

 

 

"Let's not," Xander and Giles say in unison.

 

 

"Oh, you should see him now. He's gone all smooth and European, a blonde on each arm. I think he's modeled himself on the Immortal. It's so cute."

 

 

Spike nearly sprays his wine across the table.

 

 

"The Immortal?" Xander asks.

 

 

Buffy waves a hand. "Sort of an international man of mystery. He's got this whole scene in Rome. _Molto_ glamorous, darling."

 

 

Before Spike can determine if she's speaking as an insider or onlooker, the front buzzer rings, and Wes goes to answer. He returns with Gunn, and Annie bustles to find him a plate and a chair. He waves everything off but the chair and a glass of wine.

 

 

"Wanted to let you know, you're all in the clear. I filled Angel in on Knox and his plot, and he's glad we stopped that trainwreck. The other guy I know was in on it, one of the company doctors, he's vanished into thin air. Seems the Senior Partners were no happier about this than Angel."

 

 

"How _is_ Angel?" Spike asks. "Still fuzzy after all these years?"

 

 

"Oh please," Buffy says. "You can stop that now. Gotta give you points for originality, but I'm not falling for it."

 

 

"He's cured?" Xander's voice carries a note of profound disappointment.

 

 

"We appreciate your efforts, Charles," Wes says. "There's a place for you here, if you care to leave Wolfram &amp; Hart. We'd value your contribution a great deal."

 

 

Gunn looks around the table. "Payroll must be stretched a bit thin."

 

 

"Oh, we're just consultants," Red says, indicating herself, Buffy and Giles with a sloppy swoop of her finger.

 

 

"We work for food," Buffy says. "And the Two-Buck Chuck. Oh. Not you. The wine."

 

 

"I have every confidence we'll build the business as we did before," Wes says. "We have our visionary, just as we did then."

 

 

Gunn eyes Xander for a moment, then says, "It's not that I don't appreciate the invitation, Wes. But I don't want to go back to that life. Like I told you before, I don't want to be what I was."

 

 

"These weeks at Wolfram &amp; Hart haven't changed your mind?"

 

 

"They haven't changed Angel's," Gunn says defensively.

 

 

"They're not in the business of doing favors," Wes warns. "Not without extracting a price. It seems you very nearly paid that price."

 

 

"Senior Partners had nothing to do with that. It's over, Illyria's dust."

 

 

"So's Harmony, who never hurt a liv--" Spike backpedals. "Well, not recently. To my knowledge."

 

 

Gunn shrugs. "What I _was_, back in the day, was a vampire hunter. So that outcome wouldn't have been much different." He drains his glass, gets to his feet. "Wes, I respect your decision to leave Wolfram &amp; Hart. Least you can do is respect mine to stay."

 

 

Wes draws a breath, looking like he's about to issue one last argument, but instead he sighs. "Of course, Charles. But remember our door is always open."

 

 

"Sure, yeah. I've gotta get back. Interdimensional negotiations, kind of tricky. Don't get up."

 

 

"Well," Faith says once he's left. "That kinda sucked all the air out of the room."

 

 

"It's difficult watching our friends turn away from the path we've committed to," Giles says.

 

 

Faith holds his gaze for a moment.

 

 

"But sometimes they come back," Xander says softly.

 

 

"Yes." Giles favors her with a smile. "Sometimes they do."

 

 

***

 

 

After the meal, there's a great migration toward the door, as Buffy's asked for a tour of Annie's shelters. The thought of riding in a crowded SUV inhaling the secondhand garlic fumes doesn't exactly appeal, so Spike makes his excuses.

 

 

He steps out into the courtyard for a smoke as they make their noisy exit. The rain still slashes downward, making a curtain of water off the edge of the house where the gutters are clogged. Spike leans in the doorway, thinking about Harm, about how Angel seems to collect people (vamps, demons) struggling to change their nature. She's a mystery -- no soul, no chip, yet she restricted herself to the pig and otter blood mix (which isn't half bad, Spike has to admit). She could be right annoying, Harm could, but she tried hard to please, at least most of the time, and it was a death he wouldn't have wished on anyone, save maybe Glory.

 

 

The door creaks behind him and he turns, surprised.

 

 

It's Giles. "Came out for a breath of fresh air, did you?" he says drily.

 

 

"Stings a bit less than inside, yeah. Poor Annie."

 

 

Giles regards him for a moment. "She seems to fit in well here."

 

 

Spike nods, blowing a stream of smoke toward the cement fountain. "Do you remember her?"

 

 

"I'm hardly that totteringly old. It's only been weeks."

 

 

"From Sunnydale."

 

 

"She's from Sunnydale?"

 

 

"Yeah. Silly little goth girl, called herself Chantarelle. One of those eejits hoping to be turned by The Lonely Ones." He doesn't know why he feels inclined to tell Giles when he -- and Xander -- have kept this information under wraps. "You wouldn't necessarily know her," he adds as Giles reflexively turns toward the house, though she and the others have gone to tour her new shelter. "Wore a metric ton of makeup back in the day."

 

 

"Yes, I think I know the one you mean. _Anne_\--?" As Spike nods, Giles says, "She's become a remarkable young woman."

 

 

Spike chuckles. "I feel absurdly proud of her somehow, though the only thing I had to do with it was not eating her when I had the chance."

 

 

"Yet who knows how many lives her second chance has affected." After a pause, he says, "Bum a smoke?"

 

 

Startled, Spike hands over the pack, then offers a light once Giles has shaken out a fag. "Didn't know you indulged."

 

 

"Rarely." He takes in a lungful, then lets it out in a slow stream. "I believe the same will prove true of you."

 

 

Spike frowns. That he'll come to indulge only rarely? Not bloody likely.

 

 

"That no one will be able to assess the results of your second chance. Spike, I -- I've waited too long to say this. I regret conspiring with Robin, that last year in Sunnydale. If only for Xander's sake, I'm grateful we failed."

 

 

Spike waves a hand dismissively. "That whole soddin' year's best forgotten, yeah?"

 

 

"I couldn't have said it better." Another drag, another stream of smoke. "Still. It's time I made amends. You've made your own journey, every bit as remarkable as Anne's, if not more so."

 

 

"_Pfff._ Evil's always easier to overcome than stupid. Annie still impresses me more." Something tickles at the back of Spike's mind, the way the garlic still faintly burns his nose and throat. "'If only for Xander's sake,' you said."

 

 

"You've been good for him. This whole ... situation has helped him, much as I had my reservations when he first said he wanted to stay. From what Wes has told me, these visions must put an enormous strain on him. Yet he seems to be thriving."

 

_You should've seen him a few days ago_, he wants to say. _Fearing the worst about himself._ But he doesn't.

 

 

"You've brought him back," Giles says. "Even a blind old fool can see that."

 

 

They stand in the back garden for a moment more, smoking furiously like two well-trained, emotion-suppressing Englishmen, until Giles heads back to the kitchen to start the washing-up.

 

 

***

 

 

Spike slouches on the sofa, watching the last few minutes of _Passions_ as the chilly outside air and strategically placed fans do their best clearing the garlic scent from the room. Rupert claims he's researching in the study, but the last Spike checked, he was asleep, knackered from the teleporting.

 

 

The others are still gone. Spike can envision Xander making an inspection of every single join in the shelter, calling for a hammer if he doesn't like what he sees. Even when Xander's gauge needle was pointed more toward crazy than normal, picking up the hammer settled him, centered him. During a commercial, Spike reaches in his pocket, pulls out the little half-carved elephant, admires its lines once more.

 

 

The doorbell sounds, and he heaves a sigh and rises to answer it. The client meetings should definitely not be up to him.

 

 

He yanks the door open to find Connor standing there, shoulders hunched in the rain.

 

 

"Hey," Connor greets him.

 

 

Proof that Spike's fully tamed, he thinks sourly. Kid knows he's a bleedin' vampire, and gives him a casual _hey_.

 

 

Spike lets him wait in the rain a moment. "Yeah, what?"

 

 

"I, uh, thought I should come. Everyone was all freaked out about me being up at school, so I figured once I got that big test over with, I might as well come. Can I, uh--?"

 

 

Spike steps aside, and Connor enters. "Is the, uh, green guy here? Mr. Smith?"

 

 

"He's a consultant, doesn't actually work here."

 

 

"Oh. Is anyone else? Here?"

 

_Now_ he's getting a sense of self-preservation. Well, if that's what the stupid kid gets out of this whole adventure, it'll be a good thing. Should send Angel the bleedin' bill for it.

 

 

"We have another consultant in at the moment. He might want to have a look at you." He leads Connor into the living room, gestures to the sofa. Spike hands Connor the television remote. "Here. Knock yourself out. Be back in a tick." He flicks a last glance at the box, irritated to be missing the cliffhanger.

 

 

Giles rouses as he lets himself into Wes's study, though not looking particularly rested. He sits up on the tatty sofa and rubs his hands over his face. "Have they returned?"

 

 

Spike shakes his head. "It's Connor. The impossible made flesh."

 

 

Giles blinks at him.

 

 

"Angel and Darla's fair-haired boy."

 

 

"Right, yes. Impossible indeed," Giles murmurs. "You've said he doesn't know--?"

 

 

"No. He was kidnapped and raised in another dimension. Only that's not how he remembers it. He's got another family somewhere north of here, straight out of Ozzie and bloody Harriet. As far as Connor and the world are concerned, that's the family that raised him. Before all this latest shite happened, we had a great bloody row -- wait, make that an impassioned debate -- over whether he deserved to know, or we should leave things as Angel set them up. Wasn't just the kid whose memories got rearranged. Was everyone who ever came in contact with him. Faith's taking it as a personal crusade to get back what was taken. Wes too. According to Lorne, who remembers all this now, it's smarter to file it under Ignorance Is Bliss."

 

 

"You're not in the camp that wants to tell the boy."

 

 

"Not just tell. They want to dismantle the whole--"

 

 

"Tell me what?"

 

 

***

 

 

Spike whirls on the kid. "That eavesdropping is feckin' rude."

 

 

"Sorry."

 

 

"'Sorry' goes over better when tendered without the shit-eating grin," Spike points out.

 

 

"I'm not sure I agree," Connor says. "The shit-eatingness conveys a certain amount of shame. Or at least shamefacedness, if that's a word." He extends a hand toward Giles, who's gotten to his feet. "I'm Connor Reilly."

 

 

"Rupert Giles," Giles tells him.

 

 

"Wow. You're pretty top-heavy with the Brits in this organization. I was expecting all seedy and SoCal and Marlowesque, the first time I came here."

 

 

"There's only so many P.I. licenses available for seedy and Marlowesque," Spike says. "They're like gold. Market was wide open for the Britdick niche."

 

 

"This would be an apt time to point out that I don't actually work here," Giles says.

 

 

"You consult, though, right? What's your deal? You have some kind of power?"

 

 

"The ability to read musty books without sneezing," Spike says. "And exasperation."

 

 

Giles offers a small demonstration of the latter power, then addresses Connor. "You're a student at Stanford."

 

 

"Yeah. _Wow_, yeah. You--"

 

 

"--read your sweatshirt. Your parents must be quite proud."

 

 

"You know how parents are. Gets a little embarrassing sometimes, but they're all right." Connor shifts his feet. "So this thing. That you were talking about telling me. Or not telling me. I vote on the 'tell me' side."

 

 

"Well, yeah, that," Spike says. "I'm not the most qualified person for telling you."

 

 

"Yeah, you probably want your diplomacy guy. I'm pretty sure I've figured this out for myself."

 

 

"You have."

 

 

"Yeah. This whole case -- it just fizzled into nothing, right? No entrails, no end of the world stuff, no epic battle against evil. I haven't even heard from this Lindsey guy. Since Xander's not here, I'll be honest and admit I went looking for the guy. He's gone, left town."

 

 

Spike nods. "Was here in LA for a bit, but scarpered from here, too. Doesn't seem likely he'll be back."

 

 

"Yeah," Connor says. "Right. So I guess he's done with me, which I guess means I don't need you guys now. I feel like a big dork admitting it, but it's a little bit of a letdown. I was kinda eating up the drama."

 

 

Spike flicks a look toward Giles. He's been trained in this, how you shatter someone's illusion of the normal world and their own normal place in it. He doesn't seem inclined to jump in and begin.

 

 

"Guess it's a good thing, though," Connor continues. "I need to concentrate on school. All the money the rents are paying, they'll kill me if I start getting crappy grades."

 

 

Spike sure as hell isn't inclined to tell him himself; he's never been on that side of the argument. "You run into any more trouble, feel free to call," Spike says. "We did run McDonald off, after all."

 

 

"Sure. Okay then." He offers handshakes and thanks, and dashes out into the rain.

 

 

"Think I just subverted the popular vote," Spike says after a moment.

 

 

"Yes, well. It's a tricky thing. But I think perhaps in this case, you're not wrong."

 

_Not wrong_? From Giles? Spike decides he'll take it.

 

 

***

 

 

When the others return, their boisterous mood quickly settles, as if some decision has been reached. Everyone gathers round the research table to talk about Xander's miraculous recovery.

 

 

"I hate to look a gift horse in the mouth," Xander says. "In fact, when I think about that phrase, I realize I'd probably hate looking any horse in the mouth. That's not even taking into account any horse that would show up on my doorstep would probably be a demon. Horses freak me out. Ever since that third grade field trip to Hollow Tree Farm, remember that, Will?"

 

 

"Great" Faith says. "If you'll just shut up, we can start discussing."

 

 

"She's my babble detector," Xander says.

 

 

"Sad that the fact that Xander's _not_ in the ICU is cause for concern," Buffy says. "But there you have it, the life of the Scoobies. We're the Horse Dental Clinic."

 

 

"I thought it was Will," Xander says, "until she said it wasn't."

 

 

"I was concentrating on the protection spell," Red says. "Plus with the locator spells and teleporting, I've been stretching my energies pretty thin."

 

 

"Think it was Cordelia?" Anne asks. "She brought him the visions, maybe she gave him some kind of quick-healing power too."

 

 

"But that's not how it happened when Doyle gave the visions to her," Wes points out. "In fact, the visions destroyed her health."

 

 

Anne says, "Okay, but from what you've told me, the circumstances were different. Doyle was alive when he passed them on, right? Cordelia had already died. The fact that she could appear to us in the first place is huge. What's a little extra mojo compared to that?"

 

 

"She knew how destructive the visions were," Buffy says, "so she upgrades them with some protection."

 

 

Xander gestures, hands moving with a strangely graceful agitation. "Are you sure she meant them as a gift? We didn't exactly have the world's friendliest breakup."

 

 

"Cordelia was not vindictive," Wes says in tones of mild rebuke.

 

 

"She trusted you with them," Spike says. "She didn't inflict 'em. I saw her with you when she passed 'em on, didn't I? Heard what she said. Though I've got my own theory, an' it's not Cordelia. I'm thinking maybe it's a gift from her."

 

 

"Now you've lost me," Buffy says.

 

 

"The goddess," Faith says.

 

 

"Again: _bzuh?_"

 

 

Wes decides to take over the awkward bits. "Xander encountered a goddess in Africa. She was the source of his difficulties once he returned here." Connor wasn't wrong when he referred to Wes as _your diplomacy guy._ "But she also healed Xander's eye."

 

 

Giles says, "So you believe it wasn't just a one-time healing. That perhaps she left Xander with the ability to heal quickly, even from a grave injury."

 

 

"Grave is nothing to her." Spike flicks a look toward Faith. "Doesn't get much graver than being gutted."

 

 

"Still with the _wha?_"

 

 

"She healed me too, B. She took over my body so she could do the ritual that would let her come here, and by time Giles and Willow and their witchy friend knocked her out of me, I didn't have a scratch on me." Faith turns to the others. "It could be her."

 

 

"Great," Xander says. "I have my very own evil superpower. The gift that keeps on giving."

 

 

"What's evil about it?" Faith says. "She cared about you, that was real. A damn sight more than Illyria cared about her Kwanzaa guy. Though personally, I agreed that he was a pretty crappy priest. So yeah, your goddess damaged you, but she also left you with something that's pretty worthwhile. Something that might keep the visions from blowing the back of your head off."

 

 

Xander blinks. "Thanks for the visual."

 

 

"There's something we could try," Wes says. "We've mentioned it before."

 

 

"What's that?" Xander asks.

 

 

"You could sing for Lorne."

 

 

"I've heard him sing," Buffy says. "Forlorn's a start."

 

 

"There will be payback for that one," Xander tells her, then he sobers. "I don't know. I don't think so. I don't want to go looking any farther into the future than I have to." He looks toward Spike. "I think I'll stick with my special blend of dread and optimism, rather than know something I can't unknow." He flickers a smile. "Of course I reserve the right to change my mind at any time."

 

 

***

 

 

Spike watches from the bed as Xander slips off his clothes. Not a mark on him from Knox's crossbow bolt. He flicks off the overhead light, but instead of getting in bed, he crosses to the window, raises the shade. The halogen street lamp down the way casts an eerie pallor on his skin.

 

 

"Bit of a letdown, innit?"

 

 

"Huh? What?"

 

 

"The Sunnydale lot bein' gone."

 

 

"Having you to myself isn't exactly a letdown." Still, he's not moving away from the window. "I hadn't realized, though, how much I missed them all. And that makes me miss Dawn even more. It's been what, almost a year?"

 

 

"Longer for me," Spike says.

 

 

"_You_ are gonna be in some serious shit, Spike, my man. We should think about going to see her." He's still intent on something out there, seemingly off a ways away. "Come take a look at this."

 

 

Spike throws back the sheet. "Four horsemen?"

 

 

"Don't you think four is redundant? Wouldn't you say death is sorta covered under war, pestilence and famine? Cause death by accident and old age don't feel particularly apocalypsy to me."

 

 

Spike joins him at the window. "What's up?"

 

 

"Maybe they should downsize it to the three horsemen."

 

 

"Four's a better number. Four corners of the earth, the four elements--"

 

 

"Earth, Wind and Fire," Xander says, as if that's an argument.

 

 

"An' they were lame. That's what happens when you muck about with the natural order."

 

 

"Okay, then, how's this? A contest to name a new fourth horseman. Surely the 21st century's got some new, terrifying apocalypsy thing to beat out death."

 

 

"You were showing me something. Least I thought that's why I was leaving my warm bed."

 

 

"There." Xander points. "Looks like clear black, doesn't it? I mean, you can't see stars -- like you ever can -- but the light's not bouncing back from the cloud cover."

 

 

"You think the rain's moving off."

 

 

"Maybe." Xander slings an arm over Spike's shoulder, snugs him in closer to his side. "I heard what you said." His warm breath ruffles Spike's hair. "When they were wheeling me to surgery. I was fuzzy as all hell, but I heard you talking about Africa. Telling me to imagine us together there, in the dark. It made the black a lot less scary."

 

 

"Was something me mum used to do when I was sick, or scared. Help me imagine someplace I liked, or wished I could see."

 

 

"What was she like?" Xander idly traces circles on the skin over Spike's shoulder blade, his touch feathery light.

 

 

"Rather not be thinking of me mum, standing here naked."

 

 

"You brought her up."

 

 

"An' I'm putting her down. I'd rather be doing things that would shock a Victorian lady's sensibilities."

 

 

"I'd think standing naked in a window with another man would be enough for that."

 

 

"It's not enough for me."

 

 

Xander laughs softly and pulls Spike in closer, cupping his jaw in one rough hand, coaxing him toward him for a kiss that's slow yet demanding. When they break, Xander makes a low noise in his throat that kicks Spike's desire into overdrive. In a heartbeat they're all hands and mouths, soft pinches and rough kisses, groping and nips and groans.

 

 

"Missed you," Xander mutters between kisses. His breath gusts hot against Spike's skin.

 

 

Spike feels the poet stirring within him, wanting to say something meaningful and perfectly dreadful. He squashes the impulse. "Yeah."

 

 

But that just sounds stupid.

 

 

"Let's get in bed, yeah? Nothing like a shag with the rain hissin' on the roof. Might be our last chance for a while."

 

 

A moron's idea of poetic, that.

 

 

Smiling, Xander feathers his fingertips down Spike's cheek. "Act now, limited time offer." He turns to pull down the blackout shade. "Don't want to fry you in the morning."

 

 

Sometimes, it occurs to Spike, poetry is overrated.


End file.
